


this gun has no trigger

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Punk AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry's punk, Louis won't play piano, Liam has a judgemental tortoise, Niall dyes his hair many colors and Zayn doesn't even like the Ramones, honestly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this is where our punk story starts

**Author's Note:**

> So you see, tamzin and I wrote that approximately a hundred years ago, frequently forgot about it, then ended writing 30K of it with all-over-the-place characterizations, timelines and basically everything. Don't expect anything from this except gratuitous swearing and epic friendship between animals. Also, we briefly considered adding capital letters, but then we considered how many hours it would take us and how much we didn't care and decided against it. (Edit: well I'm a masochist. Nothing new. Enjoy those shining capitals, folks.)

It all starts when Niall has green hair. 

It’s a Friday. It’s probably something like minus forty outside, which is why Harry doesn’t understand why he’s sweating like a pig. Possibly because it’s so hot in here that the walls are dripping. Also Zayn is lying on him, the bastard. That probably helps. Or doesn’t help, actually.

“Shove off, you git.”

Zayn answers with the appropriate middle finger. 

“Gig tomorrow, arseface. Can’t play when you’re on top of me. Though I understand why you would want to get all up on that. I mean.”

Zayn arches an eyebrow, like _really, mate_ , but he does move, reluctantly, rolling his eyes like it’s all too much _effort_.

“Go play your stupid guitar.”

“I don’t think your guitar is stupid, Zayn,” Niall says, making cutesy eyes at him. 

“Shut up, you moron. You’re only in the band because Zayn wants to fuck you.”

Niall blushes furiously and tries to argue, but Zayn shoots him a _look_ and he immediately shuts up. Harry snorts. “Count us in, cutiepie.”

“Um.” Niall blushes impossibly redder somehow. “What song?”

Harry glares at Zayn and if looks could kill, Zayn would be a corpse right about now. “ _Orgasm addict_.”

Niall’s face looks like it’s going to burst if it gets any more red (which Harry would actually like to see, because all that blood and brains on the floor would be _awesome_ ). 

“When are you going to get used to it, for fuck’s sake?” He bets the kid has never had an orgasm. Though it’s probably not going to stay that way for much longer, if Zayn has his say in the matter.

“Just play the fucking song,” Zayn snaps.

“Fine,” Harry agrees. “We’ll play the _fucking_ song.” He thrusts his hips in the least subtle way possible. Very little Harry does is subtle. He then proceeds to get cosy with the mike stand in a way that is probably supposed to be deeply arousing but ends up looking like a slug trying to copulate.

For all the shit Harry gives him and all the times he takes the piss, Niall is actually a pretty decent drummer. He bangs away at his drums like it’s going out of fashion, and Harry can _feel_ Zayn congratulating himself on recruiting such a dedicated future fuckbuddy behind his back. 

Harry maintains that Niall does not _get it_ (but then in Harry’s opinion, very few people besides himself _do_ get it). Harry is _punk_ , but old school hardcore _proper_ punk. It’s not his fault he was born three decades too late.

Harry’s favourite part of _Orgasm addict_ is the filthy sexy moaning. he grinds up against Zayn, glancing over to see the way Niall blushes and his drumbeat stutters. It’s funny but it’s also kind of annoying because, well, they’re _punk_. 

“Is he going to get all hot and flustered every time I sing?” he asks Zayn later, when they’re lying tangled and sweaty on the mattress on the floor of Harry’s shitty apartment. 

Zayn snags the joint from Harry’s hand and takes a drag on it. “The gig is tomorrow anyway, it’s not like we can do anything about it.”

“Why did you have to listen to your dick,” Harry moans. “Again.”

“Right, like you don’t make decisions based on what your dick tells you,” Zayn says, gesturing between them. 

Harry snorts. Zayn has a point. “Right, except. _this_ isn’t fucking with the band. His squirminess is fucking with the band. Maybe if you fucked him, he’d squirm less.”

“I’m working him, man. There’s a _technique_ , you just don’t get it.”

“Most of our songs are about blowjobs and wanking and cocks, dude. We can’t get much more blatant than that. The fuck are you waiting for?”

“What if he’s a virgin, uh? Then he’ll get scared and we won’t have a drummer and you’ll yell at me.” Zayn glares. “Again.”

“I yell at you all the time anyway, you puss. And fuck yes, he’s a virgin. Jesus. Do you have _feelings_ for him or something?” he says with a grimace. This thing with him and Zayn works perfectly because there aren’t any _feelings_ besides friendship involved.

“Don’t be gross,” Zayn deadpans.

Harry sits up, eyes widening, and slaps at Zayn’s chest. “You do! Ugh. You sicken me.”

Zayn sits up, looking affronted. “How do you get to decide that I’ve got feelings all of a sudden? This is like, arbitrary.”

“Your _face_ is arbitrary. Also it’s doing that thing. Where it like, moves and stuff. You have an actual _expression_.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry laughs. “This conversation is boring. Let’s have sex. I wanna fuck you like a punk song.”

“So, under four minutes then?”

“Yup,” Harry replies, popping the _p_ sound deliberately and grinding out the joint they were sharing.

They get at it. (They’re done in three and a half.)

-

They managed to secure the venue with the help of a friend of Zayn’s. They kind of have a bad reputation in the neighborhood, which is totally unjustified. It’s not Harry’s fault their gigs always end in bar brawls. They’re _punk_. At least their audience gets what they’re about. (And it could be worse. there could be actual _orgies_. Wait, no, that would be awesome. Harry is so going to sell Zayn on the idea.)

The floor is sticky with spilled beer, the air is thick with smoke and the usual crowd are in, loud and leery. Harry can practically _feel_ their eyes on him as he struts and swaggers about the stage in his vintage Ramones t-shirt and ripped up jeans. He’s sneering and slurring his way through _Pretty vacant_ when he catches Niall looking very red from the corner of his eye, but can’t quite determine if it’s from the heat or because Zayn is dressed like the porn version of a male hooker. Probably a bit of both. All of Zayn’s tattoos are exposed (and he has some that are _not_ meant to be exposed), and even Harry sometimes wants to lick them, so, yeah, he can kind of understand Niall being a bit... squirmy about it. But at least his drumbeat is decent, so Harry is going to take what he’s given. 

There’s a guy in one of the booths near Harry’s side of the stage that is unnerving him. He looks like he doesn’t give a flying shit about them all, one eyebrow cocked and his face screwed in an expression that pretty much _yells_ “what the fuck am I doing here.”

Harry jumps off the stage as _Pretty vacant_ ends to drunken cheering and hollering. They’re kicking it up a gear or seven for their next song, so pissed off, a riot of a song just over a minute and a half, and one of his favourites because he can slur and sneer and he’s in his fucking element. And this guy is going to enjoy it whether he wants it or not. 

“ _We don’t give a shit_ ,” he yells in the guy’s face. He can feel Zayn’s gaze on his back, and if looks could kill, he would be dead on the floor right now. Zayn keeps playing anyway, though the usual call and response of _so pissed off_ sounds _actually_ pissed off, which Harry stubbornly ignores, yelling back _fuck all that_ enthusiastically and pointedly. It actually sounds pretty good. 

Liam the bartender shoots him a panicked look. Harry kind of likes him in his usual fuck-the-world way, but he’s pretty sure Liam doesn’t know it. Mostly because the last time they saw each other it ended with a fist in the face, and the face in question wasn’t Harry’s. So... there’s that. But, like, he did it in a loving way.

“You look like you could use a night on the piss,” he tells the guy, who looks so prim and proper Harry kind of wonders if he has a death wish for coming here. The guy looks appropriately riled up. Harry smirks. 

“Fuck off,” the guy says. It takes more than that to discourage Harry styles, though. He wouldn’t be a punk if he cared about people insulting him. 

The song ends in a chorus of cheers and Harry seizes the occasion to grind closer to the guy. Someone pushes him from behind and he ends up in his lap, rocking shamelessly against the guy’s groin. This night is turning better than expected. 

The guy’s fist colliding with his face is pretty unexpected, admittedly, but by now, Harry’s kind of a pro at getting punched in the face. 

So he reacts like any punk would: he laughs and throws a punch back.

-

Louis didn’t even _want_ to go. 

He’s made it clear a number of times that he thinks this ‘punk’ trend is stupid, because it’s not like it was cool in the seventies, it’s not going to be cooler now. But he’s got stupid stubborn friends who won’t take no for an answer, not matter how many times Louis says it, so he gets dragged along anyway. (Also Eleanor may have promised him that the singer was hot, which he realizes was a lie and a calumny and also a lie. Who even wears their hair like that? Who even _has_ that much hair?)

On stage, he only _looked_ like a wanker. Up close, it’s obvious that he _is_ a wanker. And Louis does not appreciate people yelling in his face. Especially while he’s drinking his beer and annoying absolutely no one. Just because he’s not drunk and jumping about like all the other badly dressed _punk_ fans in here. He should've known ‘punk’ was an euphemism for ‘looking for shit’. 

Like, who the fuck _laughs_ when you hit them. Who _does_ that. Obviously, this fucking wanker singer who thinks he has a time machine and he’s the love child of Sid Vicious and Johnny Thunders and all the other fucking pathetic _punk_ icons (he’s pretty sure orgies are in the punk handbook).

The only sane person in this dive seems to be the bartender (Louis still doesn’t understand what he’s doing here, though, has he been kidnapped from the Amish or something? He’s wearing _plaid_. God, what is Louis doing here?), but apparently he’s ducked under the bar when the first punch was thrown, which is understandable. Louis would have done that too, if he wasn’t the one _getting punched_. 

It’s when the wanker punches Louis back that everything goes a little bit crazy. And it seems sort of inevitable really. There’s a collective feeling of relief and release, like this was all everyone was waiting for: a brawl.

The wanker lead singer leaps off of Louis’s lap and throws himself into the fight. Louis ducks under the table – it seems like the safest place, even though the floor is disgustingly sticky and stained with things he’s not going to think about right now.

He actually sighs a sigh of relief when he sees the bouncer, an enormous man that looks like a very menacing teddybear, tear a dark-skinned porn star (wasn't he one of the guitarists?) from a red-cheeked blond teenager, whose fighting looks more like foreplay. 

“Everyone stop and get the fuck out of here,” he yells, then turns to glare at the maybe-guitarist. “I fucking _warned_ you. Get your bloody singer and get out.”

The singer in question tries to protest but shuts up as soon as he realizes that the bouncer has maybe six inches on him. stupid but not suicidal, apparently. He’s grinning like a maniac and there’s blood on his teeth and what the fuck is _wrong_ with him.

“Simon will send you the bill,” the bouncer says, which makes the maybe-guitarist blanch but doesn’t seem to affect the singer in the least. “He’s getting tired of you destroying his club.”

Louis doesn’t know who this Simon guy is, but he feels a pang of sympathy for him all of a sudden. 

“Everybody wants to fuck shit up,” the singer announces like he’s a prophet or something, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of blood behind and shrugging nonchalantly like that’s no big deal at all. His knuckles are split and bloody. He looks too fucking _happy_ for someone who probably has a concussion.

They all get thrown out unceremoniously, which Louis feels isn’t fair at all. He should get a refund, is what should happen. He's just an innocent bystander. Stupid punks.

The singer braces himself against a brick wall and hunches over to spit out mouthfuls of blood. The maybe-guitarist watches him with an expression that is more curious than it is concerned, and why do none of these idiots respond appropriately to life-threatening situations?

He looks over for Eleanor and Stan, but the fuckers seem to have disappeared and left him alone with rabid punk singers/guitarists/who knows what else. 

“That was fun,” the singer (who Louis decides is the most idiotic out of all of them) says, blood dripping on his chin. 

“Yeah,” the blond one who was humping the maybe-guitarist answers, eyes wide and earnest. 

The singer snorts. “Yeah, I bet you liked it, you horny bastard.”

The blond one opens his mouth to answer something that is probably both crass and laden with unsubtle sexual innuendo, and Louis braces himself with morbid curiosity, when the metal door opens. They all turn towards it, only to see the bartender, smiling sheepishly. 

“I’ve got drinks,” he says. “And band-aids. You don’t need a doctor, do you?”

“Fucking doctors,” the singer answers. “All they do is rip everyone off. Fuck society.”

Louis cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes. Is this guy for _real_?

“What?” he snaps, glaring at Louis. “I saw you roll your fucking eyes at me. Getting punched in the face once wasn’t enough for you?”

Louis makes the universal gesture for ‘calm down, mate’ but he’s pretty sure he manages to look condescending while doing it, which kind of cancels out the whole thing. 

The singer sort of lunges at him, but the maybe-guitarist grabs him round the waist and swings him away. “Stop now. we’re done.”

The bartender actually looks _terrified_ , but he scurries towards the singer and starts trying to clean blood from his forehead. The singer tries to bat his arm off for a few seconds, probably just _because_ , and then gives in, sighing dejectedly, like having someone take care of him is _such a pain_. 

“Give me something to drink,” he groans. “I’m thirsty as shit.”

The bartender complies and pours liquid from a bottle in a plastic glass before passing it to him. The singer takes a gulp and spits it as soon as it’s touched his lips. 

“What the fuck, is this _water_?” he roars. It’s probably meant to be menacing but it’s really, _really_ not, especially considering how he looks like a baby lion that’s been dropped in a bucket of blood and then been at the mercy of an epileptic with a blowdryer. 

“He’s not gonna give you booze when you’re probably concussed, dickhead.”

“Mind your own business, fancypants. Why don’t you go fuck your girlfriend or something.”

“I’m not the one who started a bar fight. I didn’t ask for your _special attention_.”

The singer laughs dirtily. “I’m not sure you could handle my ‘special attention’.”

The maybe-guitarist shakes his head at Harry. “Just sit the fuck down and drink some fucking water then we can go the fuck home, all right, shithead?”

“Just make that pussy go away, though. He’s getting on my nerves.”

Louis is getting kind of tired of being insulted, to be honest. “I’m not a pussy. Just because my hobbies don't involve starting brawls and looking homeless, or as you call it, _punk_.”

“Also because you wear braces and the stick up your arse is probably visible from space,” Harry snorts. 

“There’s nothing wrong with braces,” Louis protests, outraged. “And don’t look at my arse, perv.”

“Except that they make you look about as manly as a ten-year-old. And I’d be all for making you relax,” Harry leers, “if you weren’t so bloody annoying.”

“Oi, lovebirds, tone it down,” Zayn shouts. “Niall’s got a headache.”

“Oh, are you worried for your boyfriend, Zayner?” Harry fake-coos. “How _sweet_.”

Louis rolls his eyes, deciding it’s for the best to try to ignore the wanker-singer as much as possible. He turns to the bartender instead, who has an expression on his face that strongly reminds Louis of small, harmless woodland creatures straight out of Disney. "Can I maybe have a drink?” he asks, politely.

Harry pouts at Liam. “You can’t give him a drink if you won’t give me one. A _real_ drink, I mean. Not water. That’s for pussies.”

Zayn sticks his middle finger up at Harry. “Are you seeing double?”

Harry squints. “A little bit, but fuck it.”

Liam, who is in the process of handing a glass to Louis, turns around, looking horrified. “You might have a concussion!”

Harry shrugs. “I’m not dead, am I?”

“Shame,” Louis mutters under his breath, taking a sip of water. 

“You said something, you cunt?” Harry snarls, and Zayn nearly facepalms. Here they go again. 

Niall hip-checks Harry, smiling brightly at him. “Come on, man. ‘s’fine. Just ignore him. He’s only a _guy_. You don’t even know his name.”

Zayn appreciates Niall wanting to resolve the conflict, but that is so not the good way to go at it. That’s like telling Harry that’s he’s _not punk enough_. It only leads to disaster. 

Louis’s phone buzzes in his pocket. They all look relieved for the distraction, except for Harry. When Louis pointedly doesn’t answer, Liam takes it as a cue to jump into the conversation. 

“Um, my place isn’t far, if you want, I mean, it’ll be easier to help you,” he gestures in the general direction of Harry and Louis, “clean up and stuff. Or not.”

“I don’t _need_ any fucking help,” Harry snarls, shoving Niall away a little harder than he means to, but actually standing up and following Liam. Louis rolls his eyes, again. Thankfully, Harry doesn’t see him.

Zayn hurries to catch up and loops an arm around Harry’s shoulders, reaching up with his other hand to tug at his curls. “Calm the fuck down, mate. We _like_ Liam, yeah?”

“Do we?” Harry asks, looking profoundly uninterested by anything that doesn’t involve sneering at Louis.

“Yeah, we do, arsehole. Remember that time he calmed Paul down after you broke the stage? Also, all the free drinks?”

“Whatever,” Harry grumbles, but he looks mellowed, so Zayn presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek before leaving him for Niall. Niall is cheerful and pleasant to be around. Harry’s kind of a shit a lot of the time.

They reach Liam’s apartment in no time. The building is unassuming, meaning shitty, and the apartment is just as shitty, but it’s not like they’re going to play the dust bunny police or something. They’re _punks_ , as Harry likes to remind them. Frequently. All the time. 

“sorry for the mess,” Liam says, actually sounding sorry. 

“Boris!” he yells suddenly. It does not make Zayn jump. 

“You have a brother?” Louis asks. Liam looks at him, looking bewildered. “Boyfriend?”

Liam blinks, and then smiles. “No, it’s my tortoise,” he says. “I’m trying to teach him manners.”

“Don’t think they come when you call, man,” Harry mumbles.

Which is proven wrong by Boris happily wandering into the kitchen, a salad leaf between its (teeth? do tortoises have teeth? Zayn wonders.)

“See?” Liam says, before kneeling in front of the tortoise. “Good boy, Boris.”

“Well. That’s awesome. I’m going to go vomit now,” Harry announces, then wanders off to Liam’s bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

(Niall has engaged in a conversation with Liam about the tortoise. “Doesn’t he feel too lonely when you’re working?” he asks, and crouches down next to Liam to pat Boris’s head. “I don’t know,” Liam answers, looking worried. “I’m wondering if I should get him a little friend.” Zayn is not looking, but Niall actually _nods_ , like anything in that ridiculous sentence made sense.)

“Good riddance,” Louis mutters, and Zayn throws him a dirty look, because come on. Harry is a shit, but it doesn’t warrant talking bad about him behind his back. Also, Harry’s Zayn’s friend, so it’s fine for Zayn to insult him, but Louis doesn’t have that right.

“Is he _actually_ concussed this time?” Niall asks Zayn, quietly, a little concerned but mostly still kind of fascinated by Boris the tortoise, his new best friend. “Can I pet Boris, or is that... I don’t want him to be upset.”

Liam smiles. “Go for it. he loves cuddles. He’s a very cuddly tortoise.”

Zayn kind of wants to go vomit with Harry, and Louis doesn’t seem that far off either. 

Zayn decides to take the matter in hand. “Um, guys,” he clears his throat, “it’s not that your obsession over the tortoise is creepy and mildly repulsive, but it is, so can we go do what we actually came here to do?”

Liam and Niall turn the full force of their combined puppy eyes toward him. “You’re right,” Liam sighs, sounding apologetic, like Zayn made a reasonable point. “Can you take Boris, Niall?”

Niall looks like the mostly-adult (okay, late-teenager) version of a child being given the toy he wanted. It’s probably as frightening as it is adorable. 

“I’ll go check on Harry,” Zayn says, leaving them to it, carefully not looking at Louis because if that guy rolls his eyes _one more time_ , Zayn might have to hit him. Not hearing any retching, he knocks on the bathroom door. “Harry? You done, mate?”

When he doesn’t hear any response, he pushes the door open, averting his eyes, but it turns out Harry is just sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, sulking and altogether looking all of ten years old. Zayn bites his lip, holding back the urge to laugh. “So, I’m assuming you’re done, then?” It’s probably the wisest course of action to pretend Harry _isn't_ blatantly sulking.

“Fuck off,” Harry says petulantly. 

“Didya brush your teeth yet?” Zayn wanders closer to Harry, tilting his head at him.

Harry shrugs one shoulder.

“Huh. You’re really grumpy, aren’t you, babes?” Zayn tugs at Harry’s hair to distract him. Harry is less likely to want to punch Zayn if his hair is being petted. Zayn has learned that over the years, and it’s proven useful. Zayn does not want to break his face, he likes it fine, thank you. 

“No,” Harry mumbles, avoiding eye contact, stubbornly.

“Is it because of that guy? He’s just a shit, don’t mind him,” Zayn says soothingly. 

“I don’t give a rat’s arse about him,” Harry spits, which means he does, which proves Zayn’s point. 

“He’s pretty fit, though,” Zayn says airily, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Harry glares up at him. “I’m hotter, right?”

Zayn pretends to think about it. “I dunno, man, have you seen that bum?”

Harry kicks Zayn in the shin, pretty gently considering he’s Harry. “You suck. Go away. Go suck his dick and leave me alone.”

“Are you sure _you_ don’t want to suck his dick? You two seemed pretty cosy earlier.”

Harry pretend-retches (it’s pretty realistic. Zayn may have taken a step back, just to be safe; he doesn’t want vomit on his shoes, again). “I’m sure that thing touched _pussy_ ,” he says, looking profoundly disgusted. 

“My tongue’s touched pussy and you still like snogging me,” Zayn replies.

“Urgh, don’t remind me,” Harry grimaces. “That was bad decision-making, that’s all.”

“Bad decision-making when you kissed me, or when I licked pussy?” Zayn emphasises _pussy_ with a filthy waggle of his eyebrows. “Because kissing me is, like, an ongoing decision. So...”

“Whatever,” Harry huffs. “What are the others doing anyway?”

“Marveling at Boris the tortoise.”

Harry looks distinctly bored by this. “Did he leave yet? That... _guy_.”

“Nope, your boyfriend’s still there, don’t you worry, princess,” Zayn says. He’s having _way_ too much fun with this. 

Harry kicks Zayn in the shin again. “I fucking hate you, you know.”

“Love you too,” Zayn drawls, dragging Harry out of the bathroom and in the direction of the kitchen. The most disturbing noises are coming out of there. Zayn fervently hopes that Louis hasn’t succumbed to Boris’s tortoise charm too, otherwise he’s going to start feeling outnumbered. 

Harry blinks at the sight of Niall with a tortoise in his lap. Niall is talking to it in silly voices, and Liam is watching him, grinning at him, and he practically has hearts in his eyes, and this is ridiculous. But also: Niall is _Zayn's_ , even if he doesn’t know it yet, and Harry isn’t going to let Liam steal him away with tortoises. “Hey, Liam. Wanna play doctor now?”

“Oh, Harry. Hello. Hi.” Liam looks flustered. “Um. Oh. You look really pale. are you okay?”

“I was sick in your toilet, Liam,” Harry reminds him. Vomit is not romantic. That’ll get rid of those heart-eyes.

Liam does look a bit chastised, and Harry feels like a good friend when Zayn shoots him a grateful look, moving closer to Niall and curving his hand on the back of the chair. Louis, against all expectations, rolls his eyes. 

“Well, uh, I have, um, band-aids?” Liam stutters. 

Harry smirks. “I’m sure that’ll help my _concussion_ , Liam, thank you.”

“I said _doctor_ and you said _fuck_ , so. I’m doing the best I can, actually, Harry.” Liam blushes then. “Um. Sorry. Come sit down and drink some water.”

Zayn does his expression that looks most like a cringe. It’s a crossover between a pout and a frown. 

Harry actually doesn’t reject the offer, which must mean that he’s on the verge of dying. “Whatever, give me the fucking water.”

“Or I have milk if you w-”

“Stop,” Zayn intervenes. “Don’t make it easier for him, dude. If you give him an inch...”

Liam looks confused, but obeys and gives Harry water. He also starts dabbing alcohol-wet cotton at the cut on Harry’s forehead. Harry spits the water out. Again. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” Louis mutters from his corner, but doesn’t actually make any move to leave. 

“It tastes like blood and vomit. You try fucking drinking it.” Harry clenches his hands into fists, then frowns down at his knuckles. “Gimme one of those cotton thingies, Liam? I’m all bleedy on your table.”

Zayn is a little impressed that Harry is trying to not get blood on the table. That’s good behaviour by Harry standards. “Did you get hurt too... Louis, was it?”

“What, when that wanker punched me in the face, you mean?”

Harry sticks his middle finger up in Louis’s general direction.

“Yep. When _Harry_ hit you. We all have names, you know. I’m Zayn, by the way, and that’s Niall, and we’ve said Liam a lot, so you’ve probably got that one covered.”

“I would say nice to meet you, but it’s not, so, yeah. I did get hurt. You’re lucky I’m not suing,” Louis says haughtily. He snatches a cotton wool pad from Liam’s hand and starts dabbing it on his knuckles, hissing between his teeth. 

Niall frowns at him. “Yeah, but, like. Don’t sue, please. He’s really not that bad, you know.”

“Just stupid,” Zayn says. Harry glares at him, but he’s used to it, so. 

“And we have no money and he’d have to go to prison and he’s kind of really pretty, so, I feel like it’d end badly for him.”

“He should stop _punching people in the face_ , then.”

Zayn nods. “He should, yeah. Did I mention he was _stupid_? He really, really is.”

Harry looks like he’s seconds from springing up from his chair and trying to strangle Zayn, so Liam jumps in to save the day, once more. “Okay guys, let’s calm down, okay? We can live in harmony.”

They all turn towards him, shocked. 

“Why the fuck would you say that, man,” Niall mutters. Even Boris the tortoise looks judgmental. And he’s a _tortoise_. 

Zayn isn’t really sure how the casual sniping at each other while more or less trying to clean them up turns into Louis ordering pizza and Harry shouting random instructions behind him, but it does. 

“Mushrooms, man, I want mushrooms,” Harry whines. 

“Well you can _order your own fucking pizza_ , because I don’t want mushrooms, so _back off_ ,” Louis snaps at him.

“But the writing on the menu is too small! And I have no credit on my phone. And you’re really good at ordering pizza.”

Zayn doesn’t know how that happened either. He’s chalking it up to Harry’s probable concussion, which is also making him kind of weirdly cuddly. Harry isn’t known for displays of affection, but the way he’s wrapped around Zayn suggests otherwise. Not that Zayn minds; Harry is warm and he’s making this noise that is kind of like purring, and it’s sort of... endearing. Though he’s kind of wishing Niall was the one with the concussion, instead of the one with a newfound fascination for tortoises. (Also Harry being fascinated by tortoises would be _hilarious_.)

Zayn turns his attention back to the two idiots, who are still bickering about motherfucking pizza. Zayn kind of pities the guy on the other end of the phone, who is having a hell of a time trying to keep up with their order.

“No mushrooms!” Louis insists, at the same time as Harry yells “mushrooms! Loads of them! And sweetcorn. I fucking love sweetcorn.”

“Double cheese!” Niall shouts over that, as though it weren’t enough already. Zayn sort of doesn’t want to know what their pizza will look like, because if they keep it up, it’s going to be a fucking monster. 

“You should get Niall his own pizza,” Harry advises. “He eats like a machine whose only purpose is eating.”

“Who said _I_ was getting the pizza? Just because I’m ordering doesn’t mean I’m _paying_ for it. No, not you! I’m absolutely going to pay for the pizza! Don’t hang up, please, I swear, I’m nearly done ordering,” he promises the poor pizza guy.

Harry shrugs. “Well we don’t have any money, so.”

Louis stares at Harry incredulously. “So you thought I’d buy you pizza out of the goodness of my heart? Do you often get bought dinner by the people you punch in the face?”

“Happens,” Harry says, stuffing his mouth with Liam’s peanuts. He’s kind of petting the tortoise. Niall doesn’t look pleased. (What is _wrong_ with punks? Louis wonders for the nth time of the afternoon.)

“I’ll split it with you,” Liam offers.

“Cheers, man,” Zayn says, because _someone_ has to be responsible. Also because they basically invaded his apartment and monopolized his tortoise all evening. Zayn’s pretty much convinced that Liam is superhuman. No one can be _that_ nice. 

“We’re poor,” Harry says forlornly, leaning more heavily against Zayn. “Poor and concussed. And punk.”

“Yes, I kind of got that part,” Louis says. At least he doesn't roll his eyes. Zayn counts it as progress. 

The pizza man, who clearly belongs to Liam’s race because he _still_ hasn’t hung up, must clear his throat or something because Louis turns his attention back to the phone, apologizes and finishes his order quickly enough that Harry doesn’t have time to intervene. 

“Didya get mushrooms?” Harry mumbles. His eyes are closed and he’s pretty much napping on Zayn. Niall doesn’t look very pleased and shuffles closer to Liam on the couch. 

Louis pointedly ignores Harry. 

“Am I allowed to let him sleep with a probable concussion?” Zayn asks Liam, source of all knowledge.

“Probably not,” Liam says, looking apologetic. Then he loops an arm around Niall’s shoulders, and immediately looks less nice to Zayn. 

“Come on, Haz,” Zayn says anyway. “Wakey wakey.” He carefully shifts Harry away from his shoulder, ignoring Harry’s groan of protest.

“Why don’t you go set the table with Louis or something?” Liam suggests.

“Don’t wanna,” Harry mumbles, much like a five-year-old, slumping against Zayn again.

“Harry. Don’t be cute. If you’re cute, I’ll let you sleep and then you might die.”

“‘m not cute,” Harry protests weakly. “‘nd I’m okay with dying. Sounds fun.”

“Sure, mate, whatever you say. Now,” he groans, pushing Harry upright, “be a good boy and go be domestic with your boyfriend.”

“I hate him,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his eyes. The world spins around him when he stands up, so he sits down again pretty quickly. “I think. Concussion. Is not fun.” 

“It’s not supposed to be,” Zayn says, patting his head. He would very much like Harry to go away so that he can sort out the situation with Niall being curled up against Liam’s stomach. This is not right. 

“Okay. I’ll go. Tell Louis. How not fun my concussion is. I think he won’t enjoy that at all,” Harry says, slowly standing up again, and it feels like victory when the spinning doesn’t make him want to vomit this time, so he staggers off to find Louis.

He finds him in the kitchen, plates in hand. “You look like death warmed over,” Louis says when Harry walks into the kitchen. 

“Way to make a girl feel special,” Harry snorts, slouching in a chair. It’s not like he’s going to _actually_ help him. And also he feels a little bit like he might fall down and that would be terribly embarrassing.

“Seriously though. Are you okay? Not that I give a shit. Because I really don’t. But I think I might be legally responsible if you keel over and die right now.”

“Whatever,” Harry mumbles. He feels like he might be sick. God, this is so not punk at all. He leans over to rest his head on the cool surface of the table, letting his eyes close again because it’s nicer when everything isn’t moving. 

“Fuck,” Louis says. “Don’t fall asleep. Don’t fucking fall asleep!”

Harry doesn’t open his eyes, so Louis grabs him by the shoulders and starts kind of shaking him. Then it occurs to him that shaking someone with a concussion may not be the best course of action. It’s like Harry’s stupidity is catching or something. 

“‘m not sleepin’. But stop. Because I will be sick everywhere. Including on you and your pussy outfit.”

Louis takes a careful step back. Let the moron die. “Help me instead of napping, you dick,” he says, more or less shoving a plate in Harry’s face. 

“Um. I kind of think I’m seeing double maybe? Shit.”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, stop pretending, you lazyass.”

Harry scowls in Louis’s general direction. “What am I s’posed to do with this plate?”

“Take a guess.”

"Break it on your face?”

Louis shakes his head. “You don’t have to be _punk_ all the time, surely? No one’s paying you for it.”

“It’s a lifestyle choice, man.”

“It’s a stupid one. Also one that went out of style thirty years ago. So get over yourself, and help me set the fucking table.”

“Swearing is punk,” Harry mutters, sliding the plate across the table, carefully.

“Don’t even,” Louis says. It ends up being more ridiculous than threatening, but Harry also finds it sort of adorable, so the concussion is probably to blame for this whole line of thinking. “Why does Liam let you in here? He’s nice and _normal_.”

“And he has a tortoise named Boris. Whom he _talks_ to,” Harry says to underline just how nice and normal Liam is. “He’d be bored without us. He likes having something to do. Fixing me up after fights gives him a purpose in life. I’m doing him a favour, really.” 

“Are you now?” Louis snorts. 

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but Liam spares Louis whatever stupidity he was going to say by shouting “Pizza’s here”, loud enough that the neighbours probably want to murder him. Or all of them.

“You should go pay for our pizza,” Harry says.

“Like hell I’m going to pay for your pizza,” Louis hisses, but he leaves the kitchen anyway, so Harry figures he probably will.


	2. and we're all just runaways

Louis has never been on a worse date than this one. and Louis has been on a _lot_ of shitty dates. He’s dated architects and musicians and surfers and even a _punk_ once when he was young, which he will never not chalk up to a youthful mistake (it lasted exactly three days, involved twelve musical disagreements, two jokes about stamina and the length of punk songs, one snog and approximately four hundred ‘fuck society’ and as many ratty t-shirts with awful slogans.)

This guy hasn’t asked him about himself once, has pronounced his name incorrectly five times so far, ordered the wine without asking Louis’s opinion and kicked him under the table three times in quick succession. Louis is not having any fun at all. He’s considering faking some sort of emergency phone call.

He does sort of want to taste the grilled salmon, though, especially since he’s pretty sure the guy is going to make him pay half of it, so he decides to hold on for another quarter of hour. He reconsiders his decision as soon as the guy starts talking again, about cheeses and the best cheeses and he’s ranking them in alphabetical order and why would anyone do that and why would he think Louis _cares_ ?

He’s reached ‘Stilton’ when Louis sees someone in the background that looks weirdly like the wanker that punched him last month when he let Eleanor and Stan drag him to this _punk bar_ thing. The memory absolutely does _not_ bring a smile to Louis’s lips.

“So, that’s the salmon,” the wanker says smoothly, smiling politely as he sets the dish down in front of Louis when he nods. “And the chicken. enjoy, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” the guy (what’s his name again? Nicolo something?) says.

Louis mostly just gapes. It’s probably not very attractive. The wanker - it _is_ him! could this date get any worse? - smirks. 

“Can I get you anything else?” the wanker-waiter asks, arching an eyebrow deliberately at Louis.

 _How about a gun_ , Louis thinks, and almost - _almost_ \- considers asking him for help. Which he eventually decides against. Getting rid of something-Nicolo isn’t worth the humiliation. 

Nicolo is contemplating the dessert menu and Louis is contemplating suicide with a spoon when the wanker-waiter glides back over to them. “Louis,” he starts, looking apologetic. “Your boyfriend’s on the phone for you. He’s locked himself out of your flat and he was wondering if you could, you know, go and help him?”

Louis blinks dumbly at him. “Sorry?”

“Your _boyfriend_ ,” Harry says pointedly, “locked himself out. Go and help him. _Now_.”

“You have a boyfriend?” the date from hell asks.

Louis doesn’t even pretend to feel apologetic as he jumps out his chair. “Oh, yeah, sorry, did I forget to mention that? Must dash,” he adds, making a run for the door. “Nice meeting you, Nick!”

“It’s nicolo!” the cheese fetishist yells. 

Well at least he’d gotten that right, Louis thinks as he slumps down against the wall behind the restaurant. 

Harry appears next to him, grinning lazily, like the cheshire cat that got the cream. “Good date then?”

Louis feels like “fuck off” would be a bit ungrateful. “Yeah,” he groans instead. “You could say that.”

“Or I could say: you owe me."

Louis stares. "What?"

"I just saved your arse back in there. You owe me."

Right. Louis should have expected that, in retrospect – it's not like the wanker, with whom his only relationship is mutually punching each other in the face and fighting over pizza, was going to deliver him from Nicolo the cheese fetishist for nothing. 

He sighs. "What do you want?"

"A gig."

Louis blinks. "What?" 

"I want a gig for me and my band."

"And how would _I_ be able to provide help?"

Harry shrugs. "Aren't you some kind of hotshot pianist or something?"

"I don't know if you noticed, but I'm not really in the punk scene," Louis says. 

Harry waves it off. "Whatever. Get us a gig and we're even."

There are a lot of things Louis is, but dishonest isn't one of them (even though the wanker probably deserves it), so he sighs, slumping against the wall. Fuck, he needs a cigarette. He kind of pities Eleanor – being a soprano sucks, and her vocal coach is a fucking hardass. 

He's so focused on lighting his cigarette and thinking about how life mostly sucks for everyone, anwyay, that he almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Harry's hand on his shoulder. Harry smirks at him. 

"What?" he asks. 

"Wanna get shitfaced?" Harry offers, for apparently no reason at all. Then again, most of the things he does seem to be without reason. "My shift ends in twenty minutes. I was gonna meet Zayn and Niall anyway.”

The names ring a bell. Wait. Right. Niall is the tortoise-lover, and Zayn is the broody guitarist with no facial expressions. Fun times. “Sure,” Louis says (he doesn’t know _why_ , but it doesn’t matter. He does need to get shitfaced. Big time.)

“Cool. Twenty minutes.” Harry turns to head back inside. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he calls over his shoulder.

“You already collected your favour,” Louis mumbles. He may thank him if he drinks enough, who knows. 

-

Niall is already pretty much drunk by the time Harry arrives with his unexpected special guest. Also, his hair is blue. No surprise there. 

“Guys, you remember Louis,” Harry says. 

If Zayn’s face moved ever, he would probably look a little surprised. As it is, he just nods, like _sure, whatever_.

“Loooooooouis!” Niall cheers. “Louis, man, you’re so... you should sit with me, man. Drink with me. We’re old friends, me and you, Lou.”

Louis kind of wants to say, _yeah, not really_ , but he also wants to drink, and Niall seems to have appropriated most of the bottles (it’s pretty impressive, actually. When he asks Harry about it, Harry shrugs and answers, “He’s Irish.”).

Liam looks at him a little judgmentally from behind the counter when Louis asks for his sixth beer, but at this point he doesn’t really care anymore. 

It turns out that Zayn _is_ capable of facial expressions. The way he screws his face up when he downs a shot of tequila is _hilarious_. A lot of things are hilarious to Louis right now, for some reason. Especially Harry’s hair. it’s shiny and soft and _wondrous_. Louis wants to take it on lavish vacations. “I bet you’d like the beach,” he murmurs to Harry's mop of hair. 

“Not really. It goes all...” Harry does an odd hand gesture that Louis can’t quite understand. “Too much moisture.”

“He’s like a baby Tarzan,” Niall agrees, sounding sort of proud.

Louis looks at them confusedly. “What are you talking about?”

“How hot you think Harry is,” Zayn replies.

Harry smirks and gives him a drunken finger. Louis nods vaguely, too busy planning his vacation in Taoha with Harry’s hair. 

“You want to bone him,” Zayn declares, calmly dodging Harry’s sloppy attempt at a punch to the stomach.

“Sure,” Louis agrees easily. 

“You could take him home with you right now, you know. Harry’s easy,” Zayn continues, taking his matchmaker role very seriously. He's having way too much fun with this. 

“I am going to kill you,” Harry announces, smashing his beer bottle against the bar.

“Please, Harry,” Liam says pleadingly as he tries to calm Paul who is already walking towards them with a strange hand gesture probably used on dogs. And tortoises. 

“Put it down, Haz. Nicely. Bottling me is a bad idea, babes," Zayn says placatingly, but he's still smirking, which kind of cancels it out. 

“I’m not so sure of that right now,” Harry mumbles. 

Louis feels very tired. 

The last things he hears before everything is black and soft is a muffled cry of “Is he _sleeping_? Oh my god, I’m going to kill him.” It sounds like a lullaby. 

-

Louis wakes up on a mattress on the floor in a room that stinks like smoke and sex. “What the fuck?”

“You fell asleep at the bar,” a sort of familiar voice tells him.

Louis squints over to see Zayn the porn star/guitarist looking down at him. Definitely not what he expected to see first thing in the morning. He could do worse, though, at least the fucker is attractive. 

“We didn’t want to leave you there. Niall was pretty wasted too, so Liam took him home. I dunno where Harry went.”

“You don’t know?”

Zayn shrugs one shoulder.

“Does that not bother you?” Louis asks. 

“He was threatening to stab me with a bottle the last time I saw him. I figured he needed some time to cool down.”

“No, I mean, does that not bother you that Niall went with Liam?” Louis asks. He may not be _punk_ , but he's not stupid. Actually, he's pretty sure the two are mutually exclusive, if Harry is anything to go by. 

Zayn narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Louis makes his _duh_ face the best as he can, what with feeling that he got rolled over by a truck. “That I’m not blind?”

Zayn huffs. “Well, it’s none of your business.”

Louis holds his hands up. “Okay, calm down. I don’t care.”

“You sound like Harry.”

“ _Please_ ,” Louis says. “Can you at least wait until I'm awake to insult me?”

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” The corner of Zayn’s mouth twitches in what might be his version of a smile. “You said a lot of things about Harry’s hair. I think you went to Paris together.”

Louis isn't twelve, so he doesn’t facepalm, but it’s a near thing. “Sod off,” he says instead, because it’s his default response when he’s barely awake and is reminded that he shouldn’t drink alcohol ever. Because it makes him say things about Harry-the-wanker’s hair. He tries to ignore how much he sounds like said Harry. 

“It’s okay to _like_ him, you know. He probably won’t actually bite you.” Zayn looks tremendously amused with all this, and Louis wants to punch him in the face. 

“Oh, how reassuring,” Louis snarks. 

Zayn, the fucker, looks like he would be having smirking if he was an actual human. “Also, he gives mind-blowing blowjobs.”

“How would you -” Louis starts. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

“He does this _thing_ with his tongue, like, he -”

“Okay,” Louis says loudly, standing up (probably too quickly, because his knees wobble and he has to grip the nearest thing, which turns out to be a lamp with about twenty years of dust on it). “I’m going to get tea now, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. I’ll come with you. It’s probably about time for a Harry-hunt anyway.”

“Without me,” Louis groans. 

That’s before he discovers that the only tea Harry and Zayn own is a crumpled pack of lemon tea that’s probably as old as the world. His mood doesn’t really improve after that. 

“We don’t really drink tea. We like coffee. And vodka. I think I bought that when we thought Harry might be dying. He was... I think maybe sixteen? So. Had it a while.”

Louis’s face crunches and he carefully sets the pack down. “ _Great_ ,” he says, voice heavy with irony. 

“I’ll buy you tea if you quit being grumpy,” Zayn offers. “And also if you help me find Harry. Because I don’t remember how drunk he was but I think it was too drunk to be left alone, really.”

Louis thinks. Is tea worth seeing the wanker again? On the other hand, he _did_ save him from date-from-hell. That probably deserves making sure that he didn't drop dead in the gutter, right? And tea. 

Tea wins. 

“Deal,” he says, holding his hand out. 

Zayn looks at it like he doesn’t know where it’s been, which Louis finds mildly insulting, but he does shake it, so it's at least that. 

Harry, it turns out, is pretty easy to find. He’s curled in on himself outside the building. His hair is horribly matted (which is an outrage if anyone asks Louis), he’s shivering and he looks pathetic. Zayn kicks him to wake him up. “Why did you sleep out here, dumbass?”

“Couldn’t remember the code,” Harry mumbles. 

“You should’ve called me, you stupid fucker,” Zayn says, with maybe an edge of worry in his voice, because he _does_ care, sometimes.

Of course, that’s what wakes Harry up. “Oh, Zayn, baby, were you worried?” he coos, a grin splitting his face. “Was your boyfriend not enough for you?”

“I’m with _your_ boyfriend, actually.”

Harry’s face crumples when he sees Louis. Louis isn’t sure the tea is worth it. 

Harry scrambles up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Shit, what’s he doing here?”

Zayn ignores Harry’s question, peering curiously at his hair, which seems to be moving in a twitchy sort of way. “I think there might actually be something _living_ in there, you know... you should shower. Several times. Preferably with bleach. We’re going to go buy tea.”

Harry must be pretty hungover, because he actually doesn’t protest (and Harry protests against _everything_ , showers not being the last on the list), just falls into step with them, frowning. “Why are we buying tea?”

“Your boyfriend is a princess,” Zayn shrugs. 

“Not his boyfriend,” Louis corrects, “and also not a princess.”

“Mm,” Zayn hums soothingly. “We’ll buy your tea on the way to Liam’s, okay?”

Louis considers this, but the health hazard is probably significantly reduced at Liam’s, so he nods. 

“Hey, Zayn?” Harry starts, sounding uncharacteristically shy.

“Yeah?”

“Um. Last night. With the bottle?”

“Yeah?”

Harry hesitates. “I didn’t mean it.”

“No, mate, I know.”

Louis frowns at them. “Is that his version of an apology? Because it was shit.”

Harry’s head snaps towards him. “Did someone ask your opinion?”

“There is an actual living breathing mouse in your hair, Harry. I _swear_.” Zayn intervenes easily. “Seriously.”

“No there isn’t. That’s just... oh, yeah, no, that is a mouse.”

Louis shakes his head at Harry, turning his attention back to Zayn. “How the hell did you end up with him?”

“Twist of fate, really,” Zayn shrugs, but doesn’t explain further, so Louis doesn’t insist. 

It doesn’t look like anyone’s dead when they reach Liam’s apartment (which is actually not that surprising, since Louis is pretty sure the three of them totalize the danger quotient of their... whatever this is), so Louis is feeling pretty optimistic. He even has tea. 

However, his hopes of it going well topple when they walk in to find Liam and Niall curled together on the couch, Niall’s head resting on Liam’s chest and Liam’s arm wrapped snugly around Niall’s shoulder. They look... _adorable_. 

The expression on Zayn’s face makes Louis wish he’d kept being the robot. He _cannot_ handle drama this early in the morning. 

“I’m... going to find a kettle,” he mumbles, and Harry, who must have an instinct of self-preservation after all, follows him, his hair still squeaking. 

He leans against the doorframe as Louis sets to finally making his tea. 

“Do you want to name my mouse?” Harry asks, like that’s a normal thing that normal people do. He’s managed to retrieve it from his hair and is holding it in his cupped palm. It’s kind of cute, except really weird. Harry strokes one finger down the mouse’s back and its whiskers twitch in response. “It’s talking to me!” Harry exclaims like he really believes it, which - wasn’t he supposed to be a punk, and not a four year old?

“Right, mate, sure,” Louis says, trying to sound as genuine as possible. It ends up somewhere between ironic and disdainful but hey, at least he tried. 

“Mouse language is nice,” Harry comments.

Louis decides to humor him, because it’s probably the only thing to do at this point. “Really? What is the mouse saying?”

“We should really give it a name.”

Louis decides to take on the task of naming the mouse, as offered, because he’s not cruel enough to let the mouse have both a horrible owner and the horrible name he’s probably thinking about. 

“Rachmaninoff,” he says before Harry can say something stupid, which he can feel is imminent. 

Harry looks at him with eyes like saucers. “Er,” he says. “He’s kind of fucking tiny. That’s a big name for a tiny mouse.” 

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Louis says, because apparently stupidity is catching. 

“Kettle’s boiled for your precious tea, Princess Louis,” Harry announces, and yeah, the kettle _is_ boiling behind him. The mouse chirps on Harry's shoulder like it agrees. Great. Now the wanker has turned the mouse against him too. 

“I’m not a _princess_ ,” Louis hisses between his teeth. “Stop calling me that.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, whatever. You agree with me, right, Rocky?” he asks the mouse.

“Why are you calling it rocky?” Louis asks irritatedly before the mouse can answer. (Except it won’t answer. Because it’s a mouse.)

“Because he’s too small for that many syllables, so he needs a nickname. Plus, Rocky is kinda punk. And he’s a _fierce_ mouse.”

“But his official name is Rachmaninoff. We’re putting this on his ID,” Louis says, because apparently his mouth doesn’t the get-go to talk, and also because he wants his name, for god’s sake. he won’t let this... _punk_ always get what he wants. Enough is enough. 

Harry looks at him like he’s the one who’s crazy. “Right,” he says, stretching the I. “He’s having an ID? Because... why? Oh, maybe if he wants to come to the bar with us, yeah?” 

“Idiot,” Louis huffs. He’s pretty sure he read somewhere that animals have to have IDs. For when they go on trips with their owners and... stuff. 

“ _I_ 'm the idiot? I’m not the one giving a big name to a small mouse and then trying to get him an ID.”

“Well maybe it’s because _I'm_ responsible. If it were up to you, this mouse would probably be called Sid Vicious and live on beer alone. _Illegaly_.”

Harry looks offended. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” he mumbles. “At least he wouldn’t be a pain in the arse, like _someone_ I know. Better a punk than a princess, right, Rocky?”

the mouse looks a little confused. 

“I’m _not_ a _princess_ ,” Louis insists, exasperated. “I’m just more _intelligent_ than you. I bet you don’t even know who Rachmaninoff is.”

“He’s a mouse.”

“Make up your mind, genius.”

“He’s a fucking _mouse_. You just named him.”

“I thought you didn’t want to name it that!”

“I didn’t say that. I just gave him a nickname. For him to feel secure and loved,” Harry says grandly, petting the little furry lump huddled on his shoulder. He’s pretty sure Zayn won’t let him keep the mouse anyway, sadly. “So, who the fuck’s Rachman-whatever then?”

“He’s a genius,” Louis says, eyebrows cocked.

“Well that’s precise,” Harry mocks. 

“A pianist, if you must know.”

“Right," Harry says, sounding profoundly uninterested. "How’d you know this, anyway?”

Louis considers saying that it’s because he’s a cultured person and also a grown-up, which is at least half-true, but can’t resist bragging. “I’m a pianist too.”

“Woohoo,” Harry mutters, sarcastically. “Aren’t you special?”

“Speak for yourself, Mr Fuck-society,” Louis shoots back. The mouse’s whiskers twitch in indignation. It probably wants to fuck society too, Louis thinks with resignation.  

“Fuck you.”

Louis opens his mouth to talk back but he’s cut off by Zayn’s voice coming from the living room. “Oi, lovebirds! Are you making tea or fucking shagging back there?”

Louis quirks an eyebrow, taking hold of the kettle. “How classy,” he mutters. 

Harry rolls his eyes and tries very hard not to punch Louis again. “If we’re not _classy_ enough for you, you can always leave. Go hang out with your own friends, instead of taking the piss out of mine. If you even _have_ any friends.”

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” Louis says. 

Harry snorts. “Maybe because I rescued you from your shit date with the cheese fetishist and you decided to be a decent human being for once and pretend to be thankful?”

“Must be,” Louis sneers. “Obviously it was a mistake.” He grabs a tray, slams mugs of tea down onto it and dashes out of the kitchen. 

Apparently the situation in here resolved itself, because when Louis gets into the living room, Niall, Liam and Zayn are slumped on the couch, playing video games. Niall has a leg thrown over Liam’s and Zayn’s hip is pressed against his. They all look very cosy. They pause the game to put down their controllers and pick up mugs of tea.

Liam looks up at Louis sort of expectantly. “You didn’t leave Harry unsupervised in my kitchen, did you?”

“Rachmaninoff is looking after him,” Louis says sort of spitefully. 

“Isn’t he a composer? And dead?” Liam asks, sounding confused. Louis still has to understand why exactly he’s friends with these idiots. 

“He’s also a mouse.”

Liam doesn’t look enlightened, so Louis specifies. “Harry’s mouse. That we found in his hair.”

That seems to wake up Niall, who was sort of curled under Liam’s armpit, head against his side, with his legs over Zayn’s. “You found a _mouse_ in Harry’s hair?”

Louis snorts. “It’s full of wonders.”

Zayn gives him a look, like _weren’t you the one saying that you wanted to take Harry’s hair on lavish vacations just yesterday night?_ Louis promptly shuts up. 

“That... really shouldn’t be in my kitchen.”

Niall turns towards Liam, looking affronted. “There are more important things at stake, Liam!”

Liam looks at him blankly. Louis sort of pities him. “Like what?”

“Like the _mouse_. Harry can’t take care of himself, I doubt he can take care of a mouse.” Louis is confused about whether he's concerned about the mouse or Harry at this point, to be honest. 

Niall starts looking thoughtful, which even Louis knows him well enough to know isn’t a good sign. “We should give him a good home. Someone who likes animals.”

Louis counts in his head. Sure enough, it takes exactly seven seconds before Niall turns towards Liam and, with what equals to zero subtlety (none of those three seem very good at it, anyway, except maybe Zayn, sometimes), says: “You should keep it!”

Liam vigorously shakes his head no. “It’s Harry’s mouse. I’m sure he’d be devastated.”

“I don’t really want him to keep it,” Zayn comments. “And also, no, he won’t. Harry doesn’t do _feelings_.”

“Are you sure you aren’t talking about yourself, Zayn?” Louis asks, because he can’t resist being bitchy. “Or is that facial expressions?”

Zayn sticks his middle finger up at Louis. “Go get your boyfriend and tell him we’re confiscating his little friend.”

“Nuh-hu. You do that. I already named the thing, I feel like my involvement quota in the mouse problem is already off the charts.”

“Coward.”

Louis looks pointedly at Niall. 

Louis is kind of a dick. Zayn shoves Louis with his shoulder on his way to the kitchen. Harry is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table, holding the mouse in the palm of his hand and talking quietly to it. Oh, wait, no, _singing_ to it. Jesus Christ.

“Are you - are you _singing_ to your mouse?”

Harry looks up at him. “Oh, hi Zayn. And technically, it’s Louis and I’s mouse, but he’s kind of a dick, so. And yes. I think he likes _The Ramones_. I tried to tell him _Buzzcocks_ are better, but he’s not sure yet. It’s okay, he’s young, he’ll learn.”

Zayn planned on saying something like _are you high?_ because he’s seriously wondering, but what comes out of his mouth instead is, “How are you even sure it’s male?”

Harry frowns. “Oh, well. We just assumed, I think. Let’s have a look. Yeah. Yep, male. I’m relieved. Rachmaninoff would’ve been a hard name for a girl.”

“Why’d you let Louis name it?”

Harry shrugs.

“Haz. You can tell me. If you _like_ him or whatever.”

Harry hesitates for just a second, then shrugs. “Nah, you know how I feel about feelings and all that stuff." He turns his attention back to the mouse. "Can he be our new mascot? Like, as a band? He’s pretty punk, you know.”

Zayn decides to let the not-answering slide, just this once. “No. No way, man.”

Harry looks up at him, his eyes big and teary and kitten-like. “But -”

“Don’t get cute. Liam said he’d keep it. you can come visit it when you want.” Liam didn’t _technically_ say he’d keep it, but fuck, he owes Zayn that for fondling Niall all over the place. 

“No! No fucking way! that’s not _fucking_ fair.” Harry slams his fist against the table. His mouse races up to his shoulder in alarm, then clambers into his hair to hide.

“Haz...”

“ _No_.” Harry glowers. “He can’t have my mouse. Rocky is _mine_. Liam can’t have him. He can get his own fucking mouse. Fuck Liam.”

Zayn frowns, stuck on the first sentence. “I thought his name was Rachmaninoff?”

“It’s a big name,” Harry says, as though that explained everything. “I bet _Liam_ wouldn’t give a mouse a nickname. Liam’s too fucking _boring_ for nicknames. Fucking _Liam_.”

“Calm down, mate.”

“Fuck you!” Harry yells. A small part of him is aware that the others can almost definitely hear him right now, but as if he gives a shit. “Liam’s taking everything away from me and it’s not _fair_.”

“It’s just a mouse, Harry...”

“Don’t you see? He’s going to take Niall too, and then you, and then I’ll be all alone, as fucking usual! He’s not taking my mouse.”

“Harry.” Zayn takes a tentative step closer, but Harry jumps off the table and storms out of the flat, slamming all the doors behind him.


	3. start to sweat so hold me tighter

The others are all sitting upright when Zayn comes back to the living room. Niall looks genuinely upset, his eyes red and puffy. Liam is whispering to him - knowing Niall, he probably wants to go find Harry. Liam is right to hold him back, though, Harry probably needs a little time to wind down before they go look for him, but it doesn’t keep a sharp pang of jealousy from tearing Zayn’s stomach. Louis is in a corner, his cup of tea in his hands, not drinking. He looks shell-shocked. 

Liam is the first to stand up. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I -”

"Don’t,” Zayn says. “It’s not your fault, you’re always nice to us and all, it’s just Harry, he’s a little - yeah.”

“But still,” Liam insists, because he’s the kind of person who always thinks they could’ve been _more_ or _better_. 

“Look, there isn’t anything you could’ve done, mate. Give it a rest. He just needs – time.” Zayn isn’t good at talking, but apparently Liam gets it, because he sits back down, Niall immediately shuffling closer to him on the couch.

“Right,” Zayn says, patting down his pockets. “I think we need to _relax_.”

Liam looks over at him warily. “We do?”

“We definitely do.” Zayn pulls a couple of joints out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think -,” Liam says at the same time as Niall breathes out a “shit yeah” and Louis shuffles closer. 

They pass the joint round, and Liam refuses the first few times, until Niall smiles at him and he can’t resist. Zayn knows the feeling. Niall’s smile is always amazing, but it’s impossible when he’s high. It’s like sunshine. Zayn doesn’t care if that sounds cheesy, it’s fucking _true_. If high-Niall smiled at him and asked him to jump out the window, Zayn can’t guarantee he wouldn’t, and Zayn’s a pretty sensible person. That’s how lethal his smile is.

“So, what’s the deal? With Harry?” Louis asks. He’s lying on his back on the carpet, staring up at Zayn curiously. He’s pretty high. Maybe not high enough to recognize the sunshine in Niall’s smile, but he’s getting there.

Zayn blinks, slowly. “The deal?”

“Well. Like. He’s kind of...” Louis waves his hand, vaguely. “And you’re all sort of... I mean. How’d that happen?”

“Um.” Zayn’s pretty high too, but he’s pretty sure that that would be a confusing sentence even if he weren’t. “What?”

Louis shakes his head frustratedly. “Like. Why are you friends with him?” 

“Oh. Um.” Zayn glances over at Niall and Liam, who both look sleepy-happy-cute. Zayn shrugs. “It’s been years. It’s... he’s not as bad as you think he is.”

“I don’t think he’s _bad_ , I just think he’s…”

“Crazy?”

Louis waves his hand. “Intense.”

Zayn sighs. “Maybe a bit. He didn’t... he hasn’t always been this... _extreme_.”

“Something must’ve happened, though. I’m sure he didn’t just _become_ like this all of a sudden.”

Zayn screws his mouth up, sighs, takes a drag from the joint. “I’m not sure he’d like me to tell you.” He glares at Liam and Niall, because he doesn’t want Liam thinking pot is an excuse for _anything_. 

“But _he_ won’t tell me. I want to know,” Louis insists.

Zayn inhales from the joint again before passing it down to Louis. “He hasn’t got many friends. Most of them ditched him when he went punk.”

“That’s crappy,” Louis says.

Zayn makes a face at him, kind of _you sure you wouldn’t have done the same?_

“I don’t _like_ punk, but you don’t do that to your friends.”

Zayn shrugs one shoulder. “They did. I said I liked _The Ramones._ I knew, like, two songs.”

“So you just followed him? Why d’you do that?”

Zayn leans back against the armchair and closes his eyes. “He was lonely. He’s not good at, like... losing people. He didn’t... he shouldn’t have lost all his friends too. It sucked.”

“Who else did he lose?”

Zayn sighs and shakes his head. “He’s just. He’s very... you can’t be halfhearted about Harry. You’ve gotta _love_ him. Like. _completely_. You can’t abandon him.” Zayn opens his eyes to peer down at Louis. “If you’re gonna leave him, you can fuck off right now. He doesn’t need that. _I_ don’t need that. It’s hard, sometimes, trying to... he won’t let me look after him. There were maybe three days when he let me and now he won’t anymore and it’s hard.”

Louis looks kind of freaked out, and at the back of his mind Zayn understands that he probably isn’t at the serious-relationship stage, more at the figuring-out-my-feelings one, but he meant what he said. He has to be serious about Harry. There’s only so many times he can get his heart broken, and Zayn isn’t going to stand there and watch it happen, no way. Louis also looks sort of moved, but maybe it’s the pot, Zayn can’t tell. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, slowly. “Yeah, okay.” He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna leave, I just - I can’t _promise_ anything, you know? I mean. We’re not even - it’s not - fuck.” He takes another drag of the joint.

“You _do_ like him, though, yeah?”

Louis sighs. “It’s not that simple.”

Zayn scowls. “Bullshit. Do you like him or not?”

Louis is saved by the bell, or more like the door, that opens and reveals Harry, looking exhausted, his mouse still on his shoulder. Liam jumps on his feet, stumbling when he realizes that his coordination isn’t what it used to be. “Harry, mate, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I swear, I-” he stutters. 

Harry holds up a hand to stop Liam’s apology.

There’s a horribly lost sort of look in his eyes that Zayn can’t fucking stand. “C’mere,” he says, “Come and have a cuddle. Get high with us. ‘s’nice.”

Harry smiles, slowly. it spreads all over his face, and Zayn thinks, almost absently, that it’s almost as good as Niall’s, in a different way. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “Yeah,” he repeats, more decisively. He curls up in Zayn’s lap, warm and heavy and it’s so familiar, and it’s good, except Louis is watching them and they were in the middle of a conversation and shit was getting kinda deep before Harry showed up.

Zayn presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “I didn’t tell him,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear. “About your dad.”

“Whatever,” Harry mumbles, but he sniffles, and Zayn knows him well enough to know when he’s touched. 

“I think he could love you,” Zayn tells him, very quietly. He’s very high. He runs one hand up and down Harry’s back in long slow strokes.

“I want to cuddle too,” Niall says, and scrambles towards them, which is probably best because Louis was looking at them with murderous eyes, and then Liam, who is apparently much more tactile when he’s high, joins them, and then it’s a big pile of boys flailing and pressing kisses to each other’s foreheads. It’s nice. 

Zayn takes advantage of the scuffle to get Niall back, pushing him onto his lap with a deft, subtle shove. Hah. Take that, Liam Payne. 

“You should have Rocky,” Harry mutters, not doing anything to stop the mouse when it clambers onto Liam’s shoulder.

Boris chooses this moment to peer from the kitchen door, looking at them like they’re crazy. 

“Fucking judgmental tortoise,” Harry mutters, and they all burst out laughing, except Liam who, of course, defending his tortoise. 

“Don’t call Boris that!” he exclaims, but his high voice is sort of ridiculous and mushy, so it doesn’t have much effect. 

“Oh, look,” Harry says. 

They look over and sure enough, Rocky has run to Boris and they’re now sniffing at each other, Boris squinting at Rocky who doesn’t seem fazed in the least. 

“They like each other,” Harry says in this ridiculous cheesy voice, because pot makes Harry cheesy. And Louis too, apparently, because he swings an arm around Harry’s shoulder, trying to look casual and failing miserably. 

Zayn raises an eyebrow at Harry, like _See? Told you he could love you._

Harry actually blushes and squirms away from Louis. Louis tuts at Zayn, like _thank you very much, asshole_. Zayn shrugs. Not his fault if Harry is a pussy. Niall is shaking with quiet laughter on his lap, and Liam is currently - wait, is he _crawling_ towards Boris and Rocky? 

“What are you doing?” Zayn asks, because what the fuck, if even Liam loses his mind they’re in deep shit. 

Liam actually shushes him. “I’m trying to approach the wild beasts,” he says. He must be higher than Zayn thought. Or _really_ not used to pot. 

“Liam, they’re _pets_. One of them is _your_ pet. I’m pretty sure they have no problem with you approaching them,” Zayn says. He can’t believe he ends up being the voice of reason, to be honest. 

“Rocky is a wild mouse though. And a punk,” Harry reminds them. “Also, Rocky would like us to order Chinese food.”

Louis snorts. “What, did he tell you that in mouse language?”

Zayn throws him a look, like _man, don’t destroy all the work I did for you_ , and Louis makes an apologetic face. He can’t help it if he’s sassy. Thankfully, high!Harry is also impermeable to sarcasm, so he smiles and says, “Yes!”

Louis smiles down at him. He looks honest-to-god _smitten_ , it’s ridiculous. Zayn really hopes he doesn’t look at Niall like that (except he suspects he does). He looks up at Niall, but he’s bent over laughing. They both watch Liam slowly progress through the room towards the ‘beasts’, making ridiculous hunter noises. It’s a little fascinating, like watching a plane crash in slow motion. 

When Zayn finally tears his eyes from the enthralling sight, Harry and Louis are making out, and wow, when did _that_ happen? 

“Um,” Zayn says, and when they don’t react, he repeats, louder, clearing his throat (how fucking cliche), “ _Um_.”

“What the fuck do you want, Zayn?” Harry asks, half in Louis’s mouth. Louis moans a little, and Zayn shoots him a look, like, _stop being obscene._

“A little explanation wouldn’t be unwelcome. Also a thank you.”

“You said he was lonely,” Louis mumbles. “And he’s pretty.”

Sometimes Zayn legitimately feels like the only intelligent person in the room. “Are you pity-kissing him, or high-person kissing him, or is this actual genuine affection?”

“Go away,” Harry orders. “Go make eyes at Niall or whatever. Duel Liam for him. I dunno. Don’t care. Fuck off and leave us alone. Perv.”

“Way to thank me for basically getting you together, dickhead,” Zayn mutters, trying to pretend like the first part of the sentence doesn’t exist. Niall is a bit red-cheeked, but it’s hot in this room, anyway, and Liam is still trying to tame his tortoise or whatever it is he’s doing. 

He turns towards Niall. “Uh, I -” he starts saying, because pot makes him _say things_ in addition to having actual facial expressions, but Niall cuts him off. “Oh, fuck it,” he mutters, his cheeks burning, and he grabs his face and plants one on him. 

Saying Zayn is surprised is probably an understatement. But it’s a good surprise. It’s not like... oh, right, okay, so, he probably should have kissed back before now, because now Niall is pulling away and looking a little confused and maybe sad and no, that’s not what Zayn wanted. He leans in quickly before Niall can back off, kisses him softly. “Hi,” he murmurs against Niall’s lips. “This is nice.”

“Oh my god, you’re _nauseating_ ,” Louis sniggers behind them, effectively ruining the mood. 

Liam has apparently given up his dream of becoming a tortoise-chaser, because he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking confused. “Has everyone turned gay while I was chasing wild animals?” he asks, looking all of four years old. 

“Dunno about you, Li, but I’ve always been gay,” Harry offers.

“Me too, actually,” Louis agrees, before the two of them are kissing again, because why not? They’re not being exactly discreet about it either, and Zayn knows that Harry isn’t shy, but wow, he had never realized how he didn’t need to see his friend give a tutorial on french kissing before him. Gross. 

Niall catches his cheek again. He looks a little competitive. “Can’t let them get all the glory,” he mutters against Zayn’s mouth, which is utterly ridiculous, but hey, anything for more kissing, right? Besides, Harry does always steal his thunder. 

Liam looks at his tortoise like he’s afraid it’s going to jump him. If he wasn’t busy trying to suffocate via kissing, Zayn would find that hilarious. 

Of course, Harry being Harry, he steps it up a notch and climbs in Louis’s lap, clinging to his shoulders like a monkey. Louis kisses him back like he’s trying to _eat his face._ Zayn cannot tolerate that. He opens his mouth to say something, but Niall takes the opportunity to slip him tongue, and what did he want to say again? 

Harry does something that makes Louis moan obnoxiously loudly, and Zayn decides he definitely doesn’t want to know what they’re doing and he isn’t going to look over there ever again because those are mental images he doesn’t need.

“Ooookay,” Liam says from where he’s still sitting on the floor, cocking his head. Rocky has relocated to his shoulder. 

It makes them all stop what they’re doing and look over at Liam. 

“living-room,” Liam says pointedly. He’s still quite obviously high, and he does this _thing_ with his eyebrows while he says that that is probably supposed to be salacious but ends up looking like two caterpillars trying to tango. They burst out laughing. Rocky chirps happily. 

“We’re _living_ ,” Harry protests. He gestures vaguely with his hands, mussing Louis's hair in the process. " _Carpe diem_ and all that shit."

“wow, that is the stupidest thing you’ve said in a while,” Louis says, without much heat, given that Harry is still mostly sitting on him and had his tongue down Louis’s throat two seconds ago. 

“My tongue was in your mouth. It’s probably covered in your stupidity,” Harry retorts.

Zayn makes a face. “Mental image, guys.” Niall giggles. It makes Zayn want to kiss his neck, so he does, because apparently now he can, and then kissing turns into licking turns into biting and they’re at it again. 

“I have bedrooms, if you want,” Liam says, but they’re not listening. 

Niall stops kissing Zayn for a second, an evil glint in his eye. Zayn forgets to be wary in favor of making a stupid whiny noise of protest that he would deny ever having uttered. “You can join, if you want,” Niall says. Zayn chokes on his spit. 

Niall turns towards Zayn, his eyes wide and innocent. “You don’t mind, right?”

First time his ass. 

“Whoakay,” Harry announces, standing up and pulling Louis with him. “we’re gonna go get Chinese before we get pulled into your orgy. Have fun, guys.”

Zayn strongly doubts that what they’re going to do is going to involve Chinese food, except maybe in obscene scenarios and he should not have thought that because _ugh_ , no. 

“Don’t leave me alone!” he says, and Harry turns to smile at him. 

“You’re a big boy,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He closes the door quietly behind him and Louis, for possibly the first time in his whole life.

Liam is now crawling towards them, and this was so not the plan, god. 

Maybe it’s a good alternative, though, he thinks when Liam kisses him. 

*

Louis glances down at their joined hands, a little surprised, but it’s kind of nice to hold hands and when he looks at Harry’s face, he’s pretty sure if he mentions it that Harry will let go and pretend it never happened. “So, where are we going?”

Harry shrugs. “Your place?”

“yeah, sure,” Louis says. He actually feels a bit nervous, which is ridiculous - he hasn’t been nervous about a guy since sixth grade, and it’s not about to start again now. Except his palms are sweating and he feels a bit dizzy, and there’s this thought running on a loop in his head that looks a lot like _does he like me?_

Harry bumps their shoulders together. “You all right? Not feeling sick, are you?”

“Why would I feel sick?”

“The pot, man. Some people, their first time, they don’t -”

“It’s not my first time, Harry.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at that. “Not your first time, huh? Well. Good to know.”

“Just because I’m not a punk doesn’t mean I don’t smoke pot occasionally.”

“Okay then, Mr Rebel,” Harry says in a whisper, and leans in to kiss Louis in the middle of the street. If they were in a romantic comedy, it would probably be very romantic. As it is, it’s... pretty romantic, too. Harry is cradling the nape of Louis’s neck and his lips press softly against Louis’s, as though they had all the time in the world. It isn’t very punk. 

Harry’s smiling when they break apart and Louis doesn’t understand how he can look so _pretty_ and soft. Harry is normally loud and brash, all harsh edges and angry looks. He seems sort of... gentle like this. It’s kind of freaking Louis out. 

“I’m hungry,” Harry announces. “I want, like... well. I want to fuck you. But first I want... maybe chips? With loads of salt. Fuck yes. That.”

Louis would snort and comment on what a romantic Harry is, but truth is he’s fucking hungry too. “Yeah, you’re right. Also we’re going to discuss who fucks who over a chicken burger, yeah?”

Harry grins slyly. “Sounds like a plan.”

thankfully, there’s a drive-thru not far from Louis’s place, and they demand pretty much everything on the menu, plus extra fries (and extra salt packets for Harry, who refuses to believe that there will ever be enough, even though Louis protests that he does have salt in his house, like any normal person). They devour a chicken burger each as they walk back to Louis’s, which shouldn’t be humanly possible because it’s a _really_ short walk, but holy fuck, they are _hungry_.

“So, I could blow you?” Harry offers, casually, wiping mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Do you expect me to say no? Your mouth is _obscene_ , man.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, batting his lashes. Louis hopes it’s ironic. “I’m pretty good.”

“So you’re... I mean, usually you top?” Louis asks casually. 

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “Whatever, really.” He stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth. “Kinda really wanna fuck you, though. I bet you make nice noises.”

It’s a strange conversation to be having in the elevator, and the old woman who’s in there with them gives them a dirty look, even when they offer to help her carry her groceries (she refuses, muttering something like “young delinquents” under her breath, which Harry finds hilarious and seems to interpret as a compliment). 

They get out of the elevator at Louis’s floor. “Because I kind of want to fuck you, too,” Louis says. 

Harry nods, his eyes turning a little bit darker. “Yeah?”

Louis steps forward, effectively backing him against the door. He fervently hopes that none of his neighbors get the urge to cross the corridor right now. “Yeah,” he whispers, pressing flush against Harry. Harry’s cheeks redden. He rocks his hips against Louis’s.

“That,” Harry says on an exhale, “is a plan. Next time, though, I will fuck your brains out.” 

“You can count on it,” Louis says, and bends to murmur filth in Harry’s ear, delighting on the small shudder it elicits.

“Maybe you’re all talk,” Harry says viciously, rocking his hips up. 

Louis bites his lip. “Or maybe not,” he says, fumbling into his pocket to find the key and take the party elsewhere, because this is leaving the corridor-appropriate area. 

“Give me a tour,” Harry purrs. “Start with the bedroom.” He presses the heel of his hand against Louis’s crotch. 

“You fucking tease,” Louis growls between clenched teeth.

“Rather _fuck_ than _tease_ ,” Harry says, smirking, rubbing his hand slowly.

Louis finally - _finally_ \- finds the key, and then they’re stumbling into the apartment and Louis is thanking someone up there that his apartment is shit and his bedroom is basically the next room after the door. 

“Let’s get it on,” Harry says, and Louis wants to laugh, but then Harry shoves his hand down Louis’s pants and he really doesn’t. 

*

Louis wakes up to the sound of rain against his window and Harry’s soft breathing in his sleep. He looks so young. Harry is radiating heat and taking up most of the space in the bed, sprawled all over like he owns it. Louis wants to be annoyed about it, this stupid kid who is all ego and attitude, strutting into his life and claiming space like it’s always been his.

He wakes up and goes to take a piss, then shuffles sleepily to the bathroom and sets the kettle. Fuck if the noise wakes Harry - he’ll have to wake up sooner or later. And then they’ll have to talk, because they’re grown-ups and that’s what grown-ups do. Louis kind of forgot that the last few weeks. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

“Fuck,” he hisses at the kettle. 

“What’s going on?” a sleepy voice asks, and sure enough, it’s Harry, stark naked in his kitchen, rubbing his eyes. Louis probably shouldn’t find that adorable. 

“I burned my hand,” Louis says, which is ridiculous given that the kettle isn't even hot enough to burn his hand on, but Harry just nods and hms. 

“Coffee?” he mumbles. 

“Pants?” Louis retaliates. His plan involves _talking_ , and if Harry doesn’t put on pants very soon, it’s going to be seriously compromised. 

“‘t’s hot,” Harry says, yawning widely. 

“ _You’re_ hot.”

Harry blinks at him.

Louis blushes. “No, I mean, like... temperature. you’re like a furnace. I had to get up because you were going to melt me.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “Never had any complaints before, princess.”

Louis rolls his eyes and resists the urge to insist yet again that he is _not_ a princess. “So, that’s a no on the pants then?”

Harry smirks. “You’ll get over it?”

He sits at the table and Louis is busy trying to make up his mind if he wants to jump Harry or have a semi-serious conversation with him (he doubts Harry is capable of having a serious conversation with anyone, ever, anyway), when his phone buzzes on the table. Louis hesitates.

“Gonna answer it?” Harry asks, then takes his phone without waiting for Louis to say anything and answers it for him. Louis really hopes it isn’t his mom. “It’s early,” Harry says, instead of hello or good morning like a normal person.

“And I called Louis,” Zayn replies.

“And you got laid! That’s your I-just-had-sex voice. Dude, you know I was kidding about the orgy, right?”

“...wow. See, this is why I called Louis and not you, prick,” Zayn says. “Also, it wasn’t an orgy.”

Harry waits for the other shoe to drop. 

“We were just three,” Zayn finishes smugly. Harry is gonna assume he got to top at some point and wow, mental images this early in the morning are not. good, even if they do involve Zayn who is so attractive it should be made illegal.

“Well, I’ll start planning your parade. Were you calling Louis to brag about your sexual prowess or to invite him to join you?” 

That’s when Zayn’s brain apparently kickstarts again. “Wait, why are you even with him?”

Harry takes a large bite of his toast. “Why do you think?” he mumbles.

“Huh,” Zayn says. “I was sure you were going to remember you hated each other half-way to wherever you had sex, I don’t even want to know.”

Harry is going to answer with something that will most likely involve a lot of profanities, but Louis takes the phone from his hand and says, “Okay, thank you, Harry. So, Zayn, did you have something you wanted to tell me?”

“He had sex!” Harry crows. “With Liam _and_ Niall!”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “I did _not_ need to know that,” he says tightly. 

“But that’s why he called you. He’s a dirty pervert who likes everyone to know about his sexploits.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Zayn says on the other end of the phone, but it’s kind of undermined by his muffled, “Stop it, Niall.”

“Oh my god, did you call me _during_ sex?” Louis asks, not really wanting to know the answer to that.

“What? No, of course not, I just - Niall is just - wait a second, will you?” 

He must drop the phone, because all Louis hears for the next handful of seconds is tidbits of muffled conversation and slick noises he _really_ doesn’t want to know the provenance of.

“End the call,” Harry advises.

Louis is going to take his advice, because there’s only so much a guy can take, but Zayn comes back on, sounding out of breath. “Sorry about that. I just wanted to ask you - do you want to have lunch? I mean, not you, like, you and Harry? And us? And possibly Boris, too, because Niall is obsessed with this fucker, the only way to make him leave it for more than two seconds is - yeah, you know what, you probably don’t want to know.”

“I probably don’t, no,” Louis says, cautiously. “And I think so, for lunch. I’ll ask Harry.”

Zayn sniggers. “What, are you like, a _couple_ now or something?”

“I’ll let you know later,” Louis replies. Depending on the outcome of their talk, if he and Harry can even manage to have a talk like actual adults. He glances at Harry, who is busy trying to cram as much toast as he can into his mouth in one go. Yeah. That's a pretty big if.

-

Lunch is... awkward. Liam, Niall and Zayn all keep making eyes at each other and they’re sitting too close together and they keep fucking _giggling_. Harry knows he is reaching the point where he is going to snap. He can feel it in the tension in his shoulders. If he was Zayn, he’d storm off and have a smoke and come back calmer.

It’s ridiculous. Fucking insanity. The three of them. What are they _doing_? Someone’s going to get jealous and someone’s going to get left out and someone’s going to get hurt, and it’s going to fuck everything up, ruin it. This weird little group is the closest thing Harry’s got to family and it’s not fair that they’re fucking with it by fucking each other. Why did they have to be so _greedy_ , anyway?

He keeps his eyes on his plate and doesn’t say a word, because he doesn’t know what he’d say but he knows it would hurt and he’d regret it, maybe.

And then there’s Louis sitting next to him and it’s so _obvious_ that he wants to _talk_ or something because Louis is responsible and shit, but if he’s going to be rejected, Harry would rather delude himself a little longer, thank you very much. He’s just a bit tired of it never working out, of people saying that he’s ‘too intense’ or ‘too punk’ or too whatever and not enough something. He’s enough. Fuck, he’s enough. 

“Are you okay?” Louis asks. He sounds gentle, which makes everything even worse. His hand on Harry’s arm, warm and companionable, is the last straw. 

“Leave me alone,” he mumbles, and he hates that his voice is broken. He storms off, thinking _I’m not crying, I’m not crying._

He’s crying on a park bench when Niall sits next to him wordlessly. It’s maybe an hour later or ten minutes, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t really care. It’s been a long time since he’s cried like this. It feels good, like some sort of purification shit. 

“What do you want?” he croaks. He’s not ready to let go of this, not just yet. 

“I brought Rocky,” Niall says. 

Rocky squeaks and jumps deftly from Niall’s shoulder to Harry’s, nuzzling Harry’s neck.

“I won’t ask,” Niall murmurs. “I’ll just sit here very quietly.”

“Yeah,” Harry croaks. “You do that. Rocky can comfort me. Right, Rocky?”

“I could comfort you too,” Niall offers. “Just thought you might not want me to.”

“Whatever,” Harry says. 

Niall winds one arm around Harry’s waist, carefully. “What did we do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

Niall smiles. 

“Okay, you _did_!” Harry exclaims. “Urgh. don’t make me think about that. I just -”

“What?” Niall presses quietly. He’s even worse than Zayn, the fucker. 

“I just don’t want to lose you, that’s all.” There, he said it. 

Niall’s brows furrow. “Why would you lose us?”

“Because of this!” He waves his hands in the air to encompass the general situation, and a passing jogger throws him a startled look. “You’re fucking around together and I get that it’s fun and hot but someone’s going to get hurt and you’re my _friends_ , fuck, you’re the closest thing to family I’ve ever had and I don’t want to have to choose when you break up, because - no,” he says all in one breath, tears prickling his eyes. Fuck. 

Niall swipes his thumbs gently under Harry’s eyes, then rubs his back soothingly. “You don’t have to choose. We all still love you, stupid.”

“You don’t understand! It’s all good now, and I get that you’re happy, but fucking open your eyes. It’s never going to work. One of you is going to feel left out, and then -”

“Not everyone leaves.”

“They _do_ ,” Harry says, his voice breaking. “They do, you just don’t want to see it.”

Niall is starting to look a little angry, and that’s what Harry wants, confrontation, because that’s how he deals with sadness and pain, so he continues. 

“You’re delusional, all of you. You want to think that your gay threeway is going to - to prosper or I don’t even know what you think but it’s _stupid_. These things never end well, I should know.”

“It’s not because you had a bad experience that -”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit, we all know it’s true.”

Niall shakes his head. “You’re not always right, you know.”

“Stop being so _calm_ , for fuck’s sake!” Harry stands up, yelling. 

“Then stop being so scared.”

“I’m not scared, I’m _realistic_.”

“You ran away to cry on a park bench. You seem pretty fucking scared to me.”

“So what? So what if I’m scared? I’m scared because I _know_ , I know how this is gonna end, and it should never have started in the first place.”

“You don’t get to decide what we do, Haz. Fair enough if you want to let your fear of being left rule _your_ life, but you can’t let it rule ours too.”

“Oh, so you’re an _us_ now? That’s pretty fucking cute, man. And don’t call me Haz, I’m not your friend. You’re just the guy Zayn wanted to fuck, that’s all you’re here for.”

Niall sighs. “I’m not going to fight you, Harry. Quit yelling. You’re scaring the mouse.”

“Fuck the mouse. And fuck _you_. All of you.”

Niall sighs again. “Okay, obviously there’s no reasoning with you, just - come back when you’ve calmed down, okay? We’re your family and we love you, even when you’re being stupid.” And he leaves. Of course he does. It just illustrates Harry's point, really.

Harry turns to the mouse. “I didn’t mean it, Rocky.”

Rocky looks up at him with big disappointed eyes.

*

Harry is still sitting on the bench when they come. It’s late, but he had an asthma crisis earlier and he forgot his inhaler and now he’s just _so exhausted_ , kept telling himself ‘one more minute’ until it was ten pm and the sky was dark. He’s probably going to sleep here, he thinks. This day started so well. 

He hears their footsteps before he sees them, like in any bad horror movie. _Homeless people_ , he thinks, and prepares to be kicked off of the bench because he knows that benches are a treasured spot among the homeless population.

“Go away,” he says, low. He doesn’t think anyone will hear him; he doesn’t think it’ll matter. 

It does. 

It's not homeless people. It’s a group of young people, maybe prep students, posh and pretty with their nice uniforms and coiffed hair. 

“Look,” one of the girls says shrilly. Harry doesn’t need to open his eyes further to know that she’s pointing at him. They’re drunk. Too drunk, probably, too drunk for kids like that, Saturday night at eighteen in the streets of london, on the hunt, craving blood like any good kid that age. 

Harry lies low. He’s been beaten up enough times when he was younger, and even during his time on the punk scene, to know that it’s always the best option, especially for someone of his stature. Rocky seems to get the message too and nestles into the collar of his shirt, warm against his neck. 

“He’s _gross_ ,” another girl giggles. 

One of the boys (Harry sees him through half-open eyes: blond hair, blue eyes, open blazer, tie askew, the perfect overprivileged jackass, probably what Harry would’ve been if he’d followed the ‘right path’) grunts in response.

“Yeah.”

He takes a step forward. Harry squeezes his eyes shut, thinking _goawaygoawaygoaway_. Rocky lets out a weak squeak. 

Harry doesn’t know if it’s what triggers the boy. Probably not. He probably would’ve done it anyway - Harry can feel it thrumming in his clenched fists, the eager blood waiting to spill, the need to hit, to hurt. He doesn’t feel angry. Resigned, maybe. He’s worried for Rocky. 

“Ssh,” he whispers, trying to scare the mouse away. Rocky seems to get the message, or maybe the group and their brusqueness scared him - he climbs off Harry hurriedly, disappearing in the bushes behind the bench at the same time as the boy yells, “Hey!” in Harry’s direction. 

Harry doesn’t answer. He’s a punk, but he isn’t stupid - there are at least ten of them, four girls and six boys, provoking them would be suicidal. Besides, there’s a difference between fighting for the sake of it and being attacked. Harry doesn’t particularly like being attacked – it reminds him of the old days. 

Someone shoves him, forcing him to open his eyes. “What are you doing here?” the blond boy asks. His breath reeks of alcohol. 

“Just trying to sleep, man,” Harry answers, trying to sound soothing. 

He sees the boy’s gaze sweep over him, his _Ramones_ t-shirt, his torn trousers, his scrawny build. “People like you are nothing but trouble,” he says. Harry half-wonders where it all comes from, who planted all this bullshit in his head. 

It’s obvious now that he’s not getting out of it. The others are have encircled the bench and they’re standing, tall and trying to look menacing. It mostly works. It’s the girls Harry’s most afraid of - he knows how they get, how cruel and relentless they can be with their pointy shoes and reluctance to get their hands dirty. 

“Look, man, I don’t -” Harry says, trying to get up, but it’s useless, of course. 

“Shut up, you faggot,” the blond guy says, his lips upturned in a sneer, and pushes him back down. Harry’s back thumps against the bench. It hurts. Harry steels himself. 

Sure enough, this is the first match that sets it all on fire, and the others seem galvanized, their eyes turning dark and feral. Harry looks at them like he used to look at the people that beat him before, without hatred, without anger, trying to dissociate himself from his body. It’ll be over soon. It’s just a bad moment. It'll pass.

“Yeah,” one of the girls says, and reaches into her handbag to draw a tube of lipstick. “You look like a chick. I’m sure he’s a hooker,” she says, turning to the others, and they jeer loudly, laughing. “I’m sure he likes to take it up the ass.”

She’s a good one, Harry thinks - a crowd-pleaser, one of those who knows the words. She looks at him, and he looks at her, and for a moment they understand each other. Through the alcohol and the dizziness of violence, he sees that she’s one of those who think that they’ve gotta do this to get through everything, high school, uni, whatever, and she sees that he isn’t scared. She shrugs, almost imperceptible. Sorry, buddy, it seems to say. Gotta do what you gotta do, right? He nods. If you feel like you have to, he tries to answer with his eyes. I’m not angry. 

She turns back to the others, lets out a sharp laugh, ringing. then she steps forward, towering above him. 

“On with the show, princess,” she says. 

He doesn’t even have the time to reflect on the irony of the name before she’s jamming the lipstick between his lips, the greasy red probably marking his teeth. The blond boy seems to take it as permission to go further - of course, that’s what she wanted. That’s how these things work. The girls lead, the boys do. It’s funny how it’s never original, how it never changes, how the boys never figure out that they’re going to get blamed, caught, and the girls will always walk away with their hands clean and their conscience cleared, at least to everyone that isn’t them. 

The punch isn’t a very good one - it’s obvious that he’s had a lot to drink. But it’s also just an incentive, and the other boys zero in on him as soon as this one lands, square on the jaw. Harry registers the first three: eye, belly, a kick in the kneecaps with the sharp end of a shoe. A giggle. The blond boy moves to the back, looks at him being beaten up, his eyes hooded and dark. He doesn’t do anything, lights a cigarette. Sometimes he opens his mouth and yells something, to make the others believe that he’s participating, and because they’re stupid and drunk, they don’t question it. 

Someone walks by at some point - a man in a gray coat, but Harry doesn’t see him very well, because he’s already dizzy and weak, a wave of blood hitting the back of his teeth. He sends a look their way, crazy and scared, and runs. Harry knows enough about people to know that he’s going to call the police, but probably won’t intervene. He can’t really blame him. 

His vision starts to get blurry when one of his ribs breaks. _Why_ , he thinks incoherently, and then he wonders if they’ll regret it someday, if someday they’ll think about the punk they beat up in a park when they were seventeen and drunk and stupid, and will they tell their kids or will they be too ashamed, or proud, or think he deserved it. Will they tell their kids, “Don’t do that. Don’t make that mistake. Don’t be that person,” like in TV shows or just let them repeat the same mistakes. 

He hears laughter - a girl, but it’s lower, not the same as before -, a hand slapping his cheek, sharp nails digging in the flesh, sirens, and then -

(How cliche, he thinks)

Then white, then black. Just black.


	4. sighed and bleeded like a windfall

They haven’t said it, but they’re all kind of waiting for Harry to come back. They’re meant to be watching a movie; they spend more time staring hopefully at the door, willing Harry to return.

Niall was quiet and sad when he got back, without Harry or Rocky. They’re all worried. It’s a tie for who fidgeting the most between Niall and Louis.

Liam is about to suggest launching a search party when Zayn’s phone rings. He leaves the room to take the call and they all watch him go. He comes back moments later, looking as close to panicked as his lack of facial expressions allows.

“What happened?” Liam asks. The others are a bit scared to ask. 

“The hospital. Harry. I’m his emergency contact.”

“What the fuck?” Louis yelps.

“I don’t know.” Zayn rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. They called me. Harry would’ve called me if... fuck.” Zayn leans on the back of the sofa, feeling sick and frightened.

“We’ll go to the hospital,” Liam says, trying to sound calm. “We’ll go and we’ll find out and I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“He was upset. We knew he was upset and we just _left_ him.” Zayn is talking like Harry’s gone forever and it's making Louis sick to his stomach.

“He’ll be okay,” Niall says, firmly. “He will be okay.”

Liam calls a taxi and they pile in, press close together for the journey.

Harry’s been in hospital twice before, that Zayn knows of. Once when he was sixteen and he got a bad cough that turned out to be pneumonia and Zayn was so _angry_ at him for refusing to go to the doctor before it got that bad. The second time was after a scuffle onstage, when Harry got knocked off the stage and landed heavily on one wrist and there was a _crack_ and Harry went very pale. Zayn drew dicks all over his cast and almost died laughing at Harry doped up on painkillers.

“He’ll be okay,” Niall says again, like the more times he says it, the more likely Zayn is to believe it, and maybe it will even be true.

Zayn’s shaking when he walks up to the reception desk and says he’s the emergency contact for Harry Styles.

The nurse behind the desk smiles at him, reassuringly, and tells him that one of her colleagues will be along to show him to Harry’s room in a moment.

“Right,” Zayn says, trying to resist the urge to start screaming at her. “I don’t... like, what happened?”

She smiles at him weakly, looking compassionate, but he doesn’t care. “I don’t know, doll, you’ll have to ask Mr. Kosta.”

Zayn feels the anger rising. he clenches his fists, holds the _for fuck’s sake, it’s my_ friend _in this hospital room and you won’t even tell me what happened?_ back and breathes through his nose, slowly. 

“I’m sorry, doll,” the nurse says. 

“Well,” Zayn snaps, because he’s not superhuman, “it’s not like that changes anything, right?”

She smiles sadly. “You should go get coffee, sit down,” she says gently. 

Liam wraps his hand around Zayn’s wrist, tries to pull him away.

Zayn glares at him. “Just sit down,” he snaps.

They wait for fifteen minutes before a doctor comes over to talk to them. He explains that Harry is concussed, has three broken ribs, a broken wrist and ankle, numerous small cuts and heavy bruising. “The important thing,” he says, “is that Harry will recover completely, as long as he takes it easy for a while. We’re keeping him in overnight for observation, but I’m confident that he can be released some time tomorrow.”

“Can I see him?” Zayn asks, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if the doctor says no.

“For a little while, yes. Be quiet and try not to overexcite him, and don’t be alarmed if he’s a bit... out of it.”

“Can I come too?” Louis asks, shyly.

Zayn nods and follows the doctor to Harry’s room. through the window, Harry looks small and _hurt_ and it makes Zayn want to find who did this to him and tear them apart.

“Who brought him here?” he asks the doctor.

“The police,” the doctor answers. “Apparently they found him in a park. They’ll probably want to ask him a few questions when you’re done.”

“Do you know what happened?” Zayn asks. 

“A group of punks beat him up,” the doctor says, a bit carefully. 

If Zayn’s teeth were clenched harder, they would probably turn to dust. “Did the police catch them?”

“I don’t think so. You’ll have to ask them,” the doctor says as they pass a police officer with a cup of coffee. 

“Hi, Martin,” the doctor says. “Is the kid awake?”

“Yeah,” Martin, a tall, middle-aged man with a moustache, says. “That his brother?” he asks, nodding towards Zayn. 

“No, emergency contact.”

“Go easy on him, boy,” Martin advises. “He’s pretty shaken up.”

Zayn glowers at him, because who the fuck is this guy to tell him how to treat Harry? Zayn's been looking after him for years. He knows him better than anyone. Louis puts a calming hand on his forearm, squeezes. The touch is nervous - Zayn hadn’t really thought about it, but Louis must be scared, too, scared and worried and everything Zayn will never admit to being but is right now. 

“Let’s go,” he murmurs. 

The doctor leaves them at the door. “Call me if you need anything,” he says, not unkindly, not exactly kindly either. Zayn knows he shouldn’t blame him, because how can you not get used to seeing people hurt when it’s all you see, day in, day out, but he does anyway. He needs _someone_ to blame. 

Harry is half-awake when they walk in. he smiles weakly at them. “Hi.” He flails his good hand about in their general direction. “C’mere. I gotta tell you something.”

“Is it that you’re a fucking moron?”

Harry huffs a breathy laugh. “Don’t. No funny-ness. Because my ribs are like. It’s fire.”

“Are you okay?” Louis asks, seriously, looking worried. “Do you need more painkillers or...?”

“‘m fine,” Harry mumbles. “‘s all good. you look like shit, though.”

Louis huffs out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, that’s what we get for spending the whole night worrying about you, dickhead,” he says fondly. 

Harry looks up at him. His eyes are very green. Zayn is getting ready to witness the mushy kissing that is going to follow when they hear a knock. 

“Can we get in too, guys?” what is undoubtedly Niall’s voice says through the door. 

Zayn heaves out a sigh of relief. 

“Nialler!” Harry cheers, then looks heartbreakingly sad. “Niall.” He flails his hand about again and it’s probably supposed to mean something. “Come here,” he says when Niall doesn’t get it. 

Liam comes in shyly behind Niall and Zayn shoots him a small smile.

“Nialler,” Harry insists, and waits until Niall holds his hand. “You are my friend. you _are_. I am very, very sorry. I didn’t mean it. I d-didn’t.”

“It’s okay, haz, don’t worry about it,” Niall says, blushing slightly. 

“I’m so happy,” Harry sighs. “I thought you were going to be mad at me, I know it meant a lot to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall says, smiling. “I get that you were angry. You didn’t mean it. it’s okay.”

Harry’s brows furrow. “What are you talking about?” he asks, looking confused. “I have to tell you a really important thing.” 

“Didn’t you just do that?” Niall asks, now looking as confused as Harry. The others just watch on bemusedly. 

“Pay attention, Nialler,” Harry grumbles. “It’s very important and also terribly sad. Prepare yourself.” He pats Niall’s hand soothingly.

Niall frowns. “Why should I prepare myself?” he asks. "What's going on?" 

Harry pats the bed next to him, not unlike a slightly off-her-rocker grandmother would. “Sit down. You probably need to to hear this.”

“You’re already in the hospital, Harry. I think of the things I need to sit down for, that’s top of the list.”

“Well you think wrong. Sit down,” Harry says authoritatively. 

“Just sit down, Niall,” Zayn says, watching them with a fond smile and a quirked eyebrow.

Niall sits down, grumbling. 

“Good,” says Harry. “First of all, you need to know that I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I already told you, Haz, you didn’t -”

“Shush,” Harry says, pressing a finger to Niall’s lips. “I’m talking now. You just listen and be solemn. Pretend you’re Zayn. Be all... anti-facial expression-y. Yeah, that’ll do. Okay. So. I’m sorry.”

Zayn looks vaguely offended in the background, which just proves Harry’s point. 

“And right. The second thing is that I am very saddened, and I am on a lot of medication right now, so if I cry a bit, let’s all pretend it’s not happening until it goes away. But, I mean, I have a very good reason to be sad. And it is thus.” Harry stops, and glances round the room for a moment, as if he’s suddenly surprised that all these people are in his room.

“The suspense is killing me,” Liam whispers to Zayn. 

“Rocky is gone,” Harry announces. “He’s _lost_. He’s so little and he’s got such a big name and none of the other mice _know_ his name, and he doesn’t know his address so how will he ever get home?” His eyes are big and teary and that’s not good, but also it’s kind of adorable how pitiful he looks.

Zayn laughs and immediately feels guilty for it, especially when Harry turns his big judgmental eyes towards him, apparently decided to replace Boris. 

“Boris and him were already such good friends,” Liam mutters in a broken voice behind Zayn, and Liam is _not_ on morphine. 

Niall squeezes Harry’s hand reassuringly. “Don’t be sad, haz. Rocky is a very clever mouse. He’ll be all right.”

“He’s a punk,” Harry says.

“He’s probably in mouse paradise,” Zayn says. 

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently, because they all turn towards him, looking shocked. “What?”

Harry’s lower lip starts to quiver. “Oh my god,” he whispers brokenly. “You think he’s _dead_?” 

“Jeez,” Louis hisses. “Look what you’ve gone and done now.”

“What? No, no, no, of course not! No. I just think he’ll be having a really lovely time,” Zayn says, frantically trying to backtrack. 

“But if he’s having a lovely time, he w-won’t come _home_.”

“It’s probably best,” Zayn says and _fuck_ , okay, he’s just going to shut up now. 

Harry starts to shake, and Louis wraps a protective arm around him. “I thought you _liked_ him! I thought you cared! All this time and you were just _pretending_?” he asks, his voice turning hysterical on the end of the sentence. Louis rubs soothing circles on his back. 

Niall shushes Harry. “Zayn’s an arse. Don't pay attention to him.”

“I’m changing my emergency contact,” Harry declares. “Rocky is an emergency and Zayn doesn’t give a shit.”

“I do!” Zayn exclaims, and Harry throws him a skeptical look, like _like hell you do_. “I just think that _you_ are more important than a lost mouse, so sue me.”

Niall’s eyes turn all mushy. “Don’t,” Zayn hisses at him. Niall looks startled. 

Louis and Harry conspire for a few minutes, heads bent in close, and Harry finally says, “Okay. I forgive you. _This time_. You can be my emergency contact.” Zayn sighs in relief. “ _But_ ,” Harry continues in a very disturbing ha-ha tone, “only if you help us find Rocky.”

“I didn’t know I’d agreed to that,” Liam grumbles. Zayn kind of pities him - the only normal guy in this troupe of crazies. 

“Okay,” Zayn says. 

“We’re family,” Niall says, apropos of nothing.

“Who sleeps together,” Zayn adds, because _someone_ has to be realistic, and also because it was damn good sex. 

Niall makes a face. “Thanks, Zayn.”

“Can you please stop discussing your sex life around me?” Louis begs.

“Says the guy who was the first to make out with his boyfriend in front of everyone,” Zayn says. 

Harry laughs then whines. “ _Don’t_ , you guys,” he says, at the same time as Louis splutters, “It’s not - we’re not -” and Zayn arches an eyebrow at him, like _what exactly is it not?_

“We’re not boyfriends. Are we, Harry?”

“Dude, it’s not okay to ambush him with the boyfriend talk when he’s in _hospital_ ,” Zayn protests.

“He disappeared before,” Louis reasons, shrugging. “He can’t go anywhere now. So, Harry. Are we boyfriends?”

Harry hesitates. “Boyfriends isn’t very punk.”

“Does that mean we’re _not_ boyfriends then?” Louis asks. 

Harry squirms. “Well. We’re the punk version of boyfriends. We’re badass boyfriends.”

Louis smiles. “You’re such an idiot.”

Harry smirks - at least, tries to, but it ends up being cheesy and ridiculous. “But I’m _your_ idiot, right?”

They lean in to kiss, until -

“Don’t!” Zayn says loudly, startling them. “Just, don’t.”

Harry hums in agreement. “My ribs kind of hurt a lot, actually. We could probably save kissing until we don’t have an audience... but Zayn’s gonna have to get used to it.”

It sounds oddly like a promise, and the others can’t help being a little charmed. 

Zayn hides his eyes when they kiss, but it’s kinda sweet actually, much as it pains him to admit it. Fucking lovable motherfuckers.

Niall smiles his sunshine smile at them, all fondness and love and Zayn can’t resist ruffling his hair because of how fucking _cute_ he is. He regrets it almost as soon as Niall looks up at him, looking confused. Right. PDA isn’t usually his style. Fuck, these assholes are making him soft. 

“There is too much love in this room,” Harry declares, solemnly. “I might have to swear my tits off and spit on the floor and fuck shit up to rectify this situation. Maybe set something on fire.”

“I agree,” Zayn says fervently. Louis looks vaguely alarmed, but he’s probably hung out with them too much already because he doesn’t look like he wants to run away as fast as he can. The fact that Harry’s got him wrapped around his little finger probably doesn’t help. 

Liam is being all responsible, as usual (except now Zayn apparently finds it endearing instead of annoying, what the fuck), and he asks Harry what the doctor told him to do, and how long his recovery is supposed to take, and when they’ll discharge him. 

Harry shrugs with one shoulder, the winces. “Fuck,” he says, and then, to Liam: “I wasn’t listening, I was tripping on morphine. Sorry. Though I think they say I can leave in one or two days, thank god. My arse is going to rot if I stay in this hospital bed much longer.”

“Don’t worry, haz. Louis will look after your arse,” Zayn says suggestively, making Niall giggle.

“It is a lovely arse,” Louis agrees.

Harry preens under the attention. “Thank you,” he says with a vague air of a pageant miss gone wrong. “I’m very proud of it.”

Niall sniggers under his breath, but Harry pays him no attention.

“Seriously though,” Liam interrupts, trying to keep their focus, which is always a challenge with these wonderful idiot boys. “You need someone to look after you while you’re healing. You won’t be able to do much with broken ribs, you know.”

“Um, dude. I live with him,” Zayn interjects, because he does, for fuck’s sake. 

Liam shoots him a look that very clearly says, _yeah, look at how not reassured I am_ , which Zayn feels is deeply unfair, especially since he’s the one who still exercised common sense while Liam was busy crawling on the floor of his apartment to capture his own pets. 

“I don’t _need_ looking after,” Harry protests, looking sulky.

They all look at him with a raised eyebrow. Right. 

Zayn, because he _is_ , most of the time, the bravest, is the one to voice their thoughts, “Harry, you need looking after even when you’re healthy _and_ sober.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Piss off. No, I don’t. I’m not a child.”

“You kind of are, though,” Liam says, and Harry’s eyes are watering, this is not a good thing. and okay, it kind of looks like they’re ganging up on him, but he _is_ kind of immature most of the time. 

“Fuck off,” Harry says. It misses biting by half a mile. 

“Maybe you should, um... go?” Louis suggests to the others, cautiously.

Zayn bites back the _I was here first_. “Fuck you,” he says, because it’s his best friend and Louis met him two weeks ago and decided he liked him last night, and he’s not going to leave Harry in the hospital just because his pianist princess boyfriend decided it was best for everyone. 

“Zayn,” Liam says warningly, the warning being _don’t be a dick_.

Zayn doesn’t feel like he’s being a dick. He’s being fair. He’s the only one that’s fucking _thinking_ in this room, and it’s time someone would notice it. “Don’t tell me what to do, Liam,” he says, voice tight. 

Louis holds his hands up in peace, looking taken aback. Zayn is pleased, a little perversely. 

Liam looks at Zayn with his sad puppydog eyes. “We all care about Harry,” he mumbles. “It’s not just you.”

“Whatever,” Zayn mumbles, looking down. Maybe he feels a little guilty, so what. 

“So we can, like, take shifts or something,” Liam says. 

“Fucking hell. I am _not a child_ ,” Harry repeats, stubbornly refusing to look at any of them. “I’m not your _responsibility_.”

“Shut up,” Zayn tells him. “I know it’s hard for you to deal with the fact that people love you, but I’ve been up for almost seventy-two hours now, I’m hungry and I have a fucking headache and the mouse is gone, so please, for the love of god, shut the hell up.”

Harry’s bottom lip quivers at the reminder that Rocky is missing. “Can you not yell at me?” he asks in a small voice.

“I wasn’t yelling.”

“You’re mad at me though.”

Zayn sighs. “No. I’m just tired, is all. And it’d help if you weren’t such a stubborn motherfucker, not gonna lie.”

“So. Shifts, then,” Harry mumbles, a little petulantly. “Divide me up. Like the class hamster or whatever.”

“You killed the class hamster,” Zayn reminds him.

“Not even. It was sick when I got it. That was not even a little bit my fault.”

“We were right not to let him look after Rocky,” Niall whispers to Liam.

“And they only live, like, two years anyway,” Harry continues. “Whereas _I_ am going to live forever.”

“Right,” zayns mocks. “Delusional much?”

“You’re not gonna survive at all if we don’t figure out who is taking care of you when, you twat,” Louis says, sort of fondly.

“Hum, I work nights mostly,” Liam says. “So I can look after him... the rest of the time?” 

“I _live with him_ ,” Zayn argues. “Wouldn't it make more sense if I just made sure he was heavily medicated and not dead?”

“See that description, Zayn?” Liam says. “It sounds more like ‘drug addict’ than ‘healthy person’ to me, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust you to keep a human being other than yourself alive. I don’t even know how you two survived all this time.”

“I do a pretty good job most of the time. I mean, it wasn’t my fault he got beaten up, but, like... I make sure he eats and I check he hasn’t choked on his vomit and I’m kind of a good caretaker of Harry, in general.”

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Niall says quietly, in a corner.

They all look at him for a second, distracted by his sudden, almost sad softness, then Liam turns back to Zayn and shrugs. “Do what you want,” he says. “I just wanna help, that’s all,” he adds in this kind of small voice. 

It’s impossible to stay mad at Liam, and also Zayn now feels guilty as shit. “You have a job and a flat and a tortoise and a life that doesn’t revolve around Harry. You should look after all of that first.”

Liam actually looks hurt at that, like the fact that Zayn could suggest that he may not care as much for his shitty punk sort-of-friends/fuckbuddies than he does for his tidy, clean-cut life is deeply offending to him. His face shows a very distressing shade of ‘how _could_ you?’

“What? No. That’s stupid. You’re my friends.”

“Guys,” Harry interrupts. “I feel sick. Someone take care of me?” he whines.

“I thought you weren’t a baby,” Zayn says, but he’s already rushing towards Harry, so the effect is kind of lost. 

Harry whines again instead of arguing. he’s really not enjoying this whole experience, especially not the part where Zayn yells at Liam and makes him look sad. Liam shouldn’t be sad. if they want to take care of him, he’ll let them, as long as they stop fighting.

“Stop fighting, okay? I’m being sick here,” he calls. 

He isn’t, not really, but he could, any moment, so that’s not lying. Or it is, but for a good cause, and that makes it okay (except for Dumbledore. That shit just wasn’t right.)

Louis strokes Harry’s hair back from his face. “You feel a bit warm...”

“Mm,” Harry agrees, closing his eyes, because being petted is nice. He tries not to think about how he’s kind of getting attached to Louis, and it’s going to really hurt when Louis leaves him. whatever. No time like the present, right?

“Should I get a doctor?” Niall asks worriedly.

“We’re in a _hospital_ , Niall,” Liam reminds him. 

“Yes, but there isn’t a doctor here _now_ , is there?”

“Shush,” Harry grumbles. “Head hurts.”

They all kind of huddle together around Harry’s bed, and for a moment it’s just that, the five of them around Harry, the tight heat and the silence and their quiet breathing, and this thing that doesn’t quite dare call itself love yet. They almost don’t notice it when Harry falls asleep, his eyelids falling shut, chest heaving, but at some point Liam sees it and huffs out a small laugh. 

“Problem solved,” he says softly. 

Zayn turns away not to smile too blatantly. “He needs a lot of attention.”

“He needs _us_ ,” Niall corrects him.

“He does,” Louis says, and there’s something like wonder in his voice, like he can’t quite believe it. “I -”

“Shut up,” Zayn says. There’s only so much sappiness he can handle. “You’re going to say sappy shit and I can’t endorse that.” His gaze turns softer. “We know.”

“We should get some sleep too,” Liam suggests.

Zayn is a bit reluctant to leave the hospital, and so is Louis, so they end up charming the nurses into giving them two cots so they can sleep next to him. His back is going to hurt like a bitch, but Zayn figures it’s worth it. 

Somehow, standing by Harry always ends up being worth it. 

-

As soon as Harry’s discharged, they take him back to Liam’s in a taxi. Without the morphine, he’s too grumpy to try to disguise the fact that he’s in pain and the painkillers aren’t cutting it, but it’s obvious to all of them that he’s hurting from how pale and _quiet_ he is. Harry is never quiet.

“Say something,” Niall says eventually, urgently, because he’s the one that the tension upsets the most. 

“Something,” Harry replies, obediently.

Niall huffs out a small laugh, and it isn’t perfect, but it’s good, a little bit better, like this lone word has defused a bit of the tension. Niall’s shoulders slump. 

“Can I get you anything?” Liam offers for the third time in fifteen minutes.

“Nope.” Harry keeps his answers short. Talking hurts. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. Everything is pain.

“Are you sure?” Liam presses, and Harry likes him, he really does, but he needs to stop doing that. 

“Shut up,” he says tightly. “Just. Stop talking, okay?”

He doesn’t look over to the boys. He doesn’t need to see Liam’s hurt look and Zayn’s disappointed gaze. He just wants to sleep, and maybe die too, if it’s the only thing that’ll so much as dull the pain. Sometimes he wishes he were strong. 

Niall settles next to him quietly and tries to find somewhere he can safely touch him without causing more pain. He eventually decides that holding Harry’s hand should be okay, and it _is_ okay, but only because Harry is tired and hurting and it’s _Niall_ and Zayn will glower at him if he’s mean to Niall again. “You okay?”

“Not really. Time for drugs yet?”

Liam glances down at his watch. “Not yet.”

“Gimme some anyway?”

“That would be an overdose.”

“Cool,” Harry mumbles.

“Don’t say shit like that,” Louis says, puttering about in the kitchen. “I’m making you tea,” he declares. 

“I don’t want tea,” Harry whines. 

“You’re getting it anyway,” Louis says authoritatively, and yeah, Harry sees how being his – boyfriend or whatever could be annoying. 

“I want more fucking _drugs_.” Harry is _this_ close to begging, or throwing a tantrum.

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting them, so shut your trap and drink up,” Louis says, walking into the living-room with a fucking mug that most likely contains tea. When did the fucker turn into Martha fucking Stewart, anyway? 

Niall stands up so Louis can take his seat next to Harry. Harry decides that if he’s in pain, someone else should be too and digs his nails into Louis’s wrist until he draws blood.

“Ow! You little shit!” Louis yelps. He glares at Harry.

He manages not to spill any of the tea, though, which is kind of disappointing for Harry but good since it's, you know, _burning_. 

“Are you _sure_ we can’t give him more drugs?” Zayn asks Liam.

“This is why you’re not the one in charge of the painkillers,” Liam tells him. “No more drugs. Overdosing might be punk but it isn’t going to happen, okay?”

“I kind of want an aspirin, though,” Niall says, surprising them all. “These two give me a headache.”

“Bathroom, top drawer,” Zayn says mechanically. Harry glares at him, but the number of times he did it in the past hour kind of made everyone used to it. 

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, biting at his lip. “I don’t... it really fucking hurts.” The mere fact that he’s admitting it hurts is worrying. Harry usually likes to pretend he’s impervious to all damage. “My ribs. I can’t... it hurts to breathe.”

“Well, you have to breathe anyway,” Zayn says, unhelpfully.

“Thanks,” Harry snips. At least he can still use sarcasm. He’ll be okay (at least that’s what they try to convince themselves, which is a little pathetic, and also not helping, but it’s not like they can really do anything else, so).

“Drink your tea,” Louis tells him. “That’ll make you feel better.”

It really doesn't. The mug is heavy and it kind of hurts to hold it, but Harry’s not going to say that out loud because he already feels like a pussy. He can’t be a pussy unable to drink tea by himself. That’s too shameful to live with. He takes a gulp. “Fuck,” he says when the scalding liquid touches his tongue. It’s too hot, and there’s not enough sugar, and everything is wrong in the world and everything just fucking _hurts_.

“Cheer up, haz,” Zayn says, sounding fucking terrified, and Harry just can’t handle this, everyone mother-henning him and snapping at each other and just not helping. 

“Leave me alone,” he whispers, and then, when no one moves, he says it louder, his head still in his hands, “leave me alone, for fuck’s sake. All of you, get out.”

They don’t move. 

“Get the fuck out!” he yells. It hurts to raise his voice. It hurts to do everything, anything, but this pain is like fire and he closes his eyes, trying to breathe through it, trying to breathe at all. His hands are shaking and he feels the first flutter of panic at how fucking hard it is to just _breathe_. He doesn’t want those fuckers here. He doesn’t need them. They can’t see this. They’re not allowed to see him in pain. He keeps his eyes closed, tries to pretend they’re not here, they can’t see. It doesn’t make breathing any easier. Broken ribs are fucking awful. It’s sort of sharp, spiky, every time he inhales.

When he opens his eyes back, sharp little pinpoints of colour dancing before his eyes, they aren’t here. He kind of wishes they hadn’t listened, hadn’t left. Everyone always wants to leave; he just gives them an excuse. He doesn’t even need to try that hard. 

He should probably get used to them not being here, anyway. It’s not like he believes that they’re going to be there forever. At some point they’re going to realize just how whiny and fucked-up and useless he is and they’re going to leave, just like everyone else. 

His next breath feels shaky and sounds like a gasp. It’s like choking. He presses his hand to his ribs where it hurts, like it’ll stop hurting if he can pinpoint the right place. There’s a cloud of panic with the pain now and he really wishes he wasn’t alone to deal with it, because he _can’t_ deal with it. It hurts and it’s not going away and it’s not getting easier and he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_.

He only realises he’s sobbing when someone pulls him into their arms. He expects it to be Zayn, or even Louis, but the chest he moves to rest his forehead against is broader, it almost looks like -

“Liam?” he asks. 

Liam laughs, slow and a little choked. “Yeah,” he says. “You okay, haz?”

“Hurts.”

“I know,” Liam says soothingly, and Harry hadn’t realised that was what he needed until he had it, the stupid, mindless reassurance, and the “it’s gonna be okay” that Liam whispers into his ear, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

“Feel like shit,” Harry starts, then lowers his voice, hoping Liam won’t hear him. “Scared.”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “Yeah, I know.”

It’s funny, because Liam’s not the kind of person Harry would have expected to end up being friends with, just like Louis _really_ isn’t the kind of person Harry would have expected to get as his kind-of-boyfriend, but he would have missed out, because they’re both kind of really awesome. 

“Stay?” Harry asks very, very softly. There’s a raspy edge to his breathing that he’s trying to ignore, but it’s loud enough that he feels less pathetic, sort of. Like he has a reason to be pitiful, because listen to that, man; he got _beaten up_. That hadn't happened to him since high school.

“Of course,” Liam smiles softly down at him. “Sleep?”

“Dunno if I can,” Harry says, but he realizes that it isn’t true as soon as he says it, the blissful darkness tugging his pupils down, merciful. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles as he slides on Liam’s shoulder, and he feels more than he sees Liam sigh softly, pick him up and lay him on his bed. Liam stays with him, because he said he would, and Liam always does what he says he will. Liam is a good guy. 

Zayn comes to check on them a while later. Harry is sleeping deeply while Liam is dozing. He smiles sleepily at Zayn. “Louis and Niall are worried,” Zayn mutters, like he’s not worried too.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Liam mumbles, almost running on automatic.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, ducking his head. “I know. I feel fucking stupid for worrying so much, but --” he shrugs. 

“C’m’ere,” Liam says, beckoning him closer. Later, he’ll blame it on the sleepiness. 

Zayn drops into his lap, and Liam utters a joking ‘oof’. Zayn smiles. “Sleep with us,” Liam says, sliding his fingers into Zayn’s hair. He tugs him down for a chaste kiss and Zayn curls up on his chest. 

“You have work in, like, two hours,” Zayn mumbles.

“So we’ll sleep for an hour and a half.” Liam glances over at Harry to check he’s still sleeping soundly. He looks too pale and too still. It’s weird when Harry’s still.

“He should have had more drugs by now,” Zayn comments.

Harry grumbles in his sleep, as though he were approving of that declaration. Liam smiles weakly. 

“I’ll give them to him when he wakes up,” Liam promises, and brings a soothing hand to Zayn’s cheek. “Sleep now.”

“But -”, Zayn starts to protest, but he heaves a sigh and drops his head in the crook of Liam’s neck. “Yeah.” he yawns. “Set the alarm on your phone, willya?” he mumbles sleepily, eyelids drooping. 

“Yeah,” Liam says, and tightens his embrace. He probably won’t sleep, anyway. He does have work in two hours, and someone needs to be there to take care of everyone, after all.


	5. taste thunder with the volume down

They wake blearily confused when the alarm on Liam’s phone goes off.

Harry bolts upright then yelps and lies back down. “Why does everything hurt?” he whines.

Liam ignores him and turns to Zayn. “I gotta run. You can take care of him?” he asks, disentangling his limbs from Zayn’s. 

“Sure, babes. Have a good time at work. See you later, yeah?”

Liam smiles. “I’ll come back after work, bring pizza. Be good.”

Zayn snorts but lets Liam go anyway. 

Harry moans. “Enough domestics,” he whines, and makes grabby hands. “Meds, gimme.”

“Anything else, princess?”

“Bring me Niall. He’s warm and cuddly.”

“God, you’re a demanding fucker.”

“I’m sick. Also I’m not the princess. Louis is the princess. He’s much more princess-y than I am. Get your facts right,” Harry pouts. Sometimes Zayn wonders if his brain stopped developing when he was four years old. 

“Whatever you say, princess. Let me wake up and I’ll get you your meds.”

“And my Niall,” Harry insists, burying himself deeper under the covers, his voice muffled. 

“And your Niall,” Zayn concedes, getting his phone out of his pocket with a wince. He’s pretty sure it got imprinted in his arse when he was sleeping on Liam. 

Harry coughs and flinches when it makes the pain in his ribs spike, gripping a fistful of blanket to keep from alerting Zayn to how much it hurts, because he feels like a pussy every time he has to admit he’s suffering and he needs help. “I think... he’s _your_ Niall," he says to distract himself. "Joint custody. With Liam.”

Zayn grimaces. “Don’t say that. that makes it sound like we’re paedophiles.”

Harry laughs, raspy and breathy. “Nah, just perverts. Nialler’s a consenting adult. Do whatever the fuck you want, as long as you don’t tell me about it.” 

“You bet he is,” Zayn says with a sly grin.

Harry moans again. “Go get me my things instead of being obscene,” he complains, flapping his hand to make Zayn go away.

“You sure you still want Niall when you know where he’s been?” Zayn teases.

“Ugh! Gross. bring me Louis. Louis is untouched by you, you filthy fucker.”

In the end, because he’s a generous person, Zayn brings both. 

“Niaaaaaaaall,” Harry groans when he walks into the room, and then instantly recoils once Niall gets close. “Ugh, no, I take it back. Go away.”

Louis’ expression is stuck somewhere between vexed and confused, and approaches Harry somewhat carefully when he croaks out his name in the same guttural way, looking half-convinced that Harry has become a dangerous madman in their time apart. Zayn kind of wants to remind him that he’s always been one, but he’s not that generous, and also seeing Louis being confused is kind of funny.

“Princess Styles, I present for your approval: drugs, Niall and Louis, as requested.” Zayn accompanies his statement with a ridiculous bow.

“Gimme drugs! And take Niall away; he’s _filthy_.”

“Oi! I am not!”

“Mm, you kind of are though,” Zayn replies with a smirk.

Niall flushes. “Shut up, you prick,” he hisses. 

Louis takes advantage of their distraction to give Harry his pills and water, ignoring Harry when he insists he doesn’t _need_ water because it’s more punk to dry-swallow tablets. _Someone_ ’s gotta be responsible when Liam’s not around.

“Drink your water, you idiot,” Louis says, and Harry honest-to-god _sticks his tongue out_. Sometimes Louis wonders what he’s doing with him. 

“You good here, Lou?” Zayn asks. “Me and Niall wanna go -” he’s cut off when Niall elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Wanna go shag? Sure. I’m good here. Have fun.”

“Won’t Liam feel left-out, though?” Harry asks, sounding genuinely worried. 

“Mind your own business, buttface. Our relationship is _our_ relationship.”

Niall throws him a sideways glance, half pleased and half confused, like, _since when are we in a relationship_. Zayn shrugs. 

“Go eyefuck elsewhere,” Harry says.

“Whatever,” Zayn says, and okay, maybe he kisses Harry on the cheek before leaving, even though Harry calls him a girl, and maybe he doesn’t even mind, but that’s his fucking best friend lying there with his ribs broken. He’s allowed to be a little emotional. 

“I hope they fuck quietly,” Harry grumbles. “I bet Niall’s a squealer.”

“Urgh,” Louis grimaces. “Mental images, Haz, for fuck’s sake.”

“Fuck,” Harry repeats, because it’s a nice word and he likes to say it as often as possible.

Louis chuckles. “You wanker,” he says affectionately.

There’s a moment of silence, and then: “Am I still pretty?” Harry asks, slurring slightly.

Louis has been wondering when Harry’s painkillers would kick in. Turns out, it’s right about now. “Yes, Harry, you’re still pretty.”

“ _How_ pretty am I?”

“Very pretty.”

“You’re not just saying that because I’m sick?”

“No, Harry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Harry.”

Harry nods, like that’s acceptable. “You’re pretty too, you know.”

“I know.”

Harry chuckles. “We’re both pretty,” he says, and ponders for a second, before adding, as though it were the only logical conclusion, “we should have sex.”

“Because we’re both pretty?”

“Mhm. We’re both pretty. And in _bed_.”

Louis frowns. “Right. Except you remember _why_ you’re in bed, yeah? The whole thing with the broken ribs where _your ribs are broken_?”

“Psh. Fuck ‘em. They’ll be fine. Fuck me.”

“Hum,” Louis deadpans. “How about no.”

“But I’m bored. And pretty. You said I was pretty. Were you lying?”

Louis sighs, rubbing his temples. This is going to get old very soon. “No, Harry. You’re pretty, and I’m pretty, and we're in a bed, but we’re not having sex.”

“But _why_?” Harry whines, like this is the single most unfair thing that has ever happened in his life.

“Your _ribs_ are _broken_. You’re not allowed. You can’t move that much. For one thing, it’ll hurt, and for another, they might puncture your lungs and then you’d stop breathing and die. So. No.”

Harry looks at him blankly for a second, and Louis fervently hopes that he’ll be understanding and mature and drop the subject. Because he would kind of like to have sex at some point, too, and it’s not happening, so if Harry could stop fucking propositioning him, that would be great. 

“Whyyyyyyyyyy,” Harry whines instead. 

Louis sighs, and Harry gets a mischievous look on his face. “Not even a handjob? Come on. I’d just lie there. No moving involved. You can’t argue with that.”

“The doctor said no strenuous activity,” Louis says sternly. 

“Getting a handjob isn’t strenuous. Washing up is strenuous, or going up stairs. I swear, I’d just lie there, Louis. It’d be awesome. Please?” Harry makes puppy eyes, and doesn’t even look ashamed about it. 

“You can’t puppy eyes me into sex, Harry. That is not how it works.”

“But -”

“It’s - it isn’t _fair_ ,” Louis says, floundering. 

Harry grins and turns the puppy eyes up to eleven. “I want to have sex,” he says. 

“You can’t have sex all the time, Haz. You’re not sixteen.”

“Watch me.”

“Nothing to watch because I’m not gonna give you a handjob. now shut up about it.”

Harry sighs. “Then I’ll have to wank myself off.”

“>hat? No, Harry, you can’t - the doctor said -”

“The doctor is a dumbass,” Harry says, frowning.

“It’s your fucking _ribs_ , Harry. D’you really not get how this is serious? You could hurt yourself. You can go without sex for a little while, can’t you?”

“No I can’t.” Harry grins. “You could help me, to make sure I don’t hurt myself,” he suggests faux-innocently. 

“Yeah, and what’s in it for me? Nothing. Quit it, Harry, seriously.”

“But Louiiiiis. do you have any idea how _bored_ I am lying here all day? And you’re so pretty, Louis. _Louis_.”

“So talk to me then.”

“About what?”

“Do you love me?” Louis asks, bluntly. It’s kind of the best time to ask, because Harry can’t run away this time, and also it’ll shut him up about handjobs.

It does shut him up, that’s for sure. 

He gapes. “What?”

“Do you love me,” Louis repeats. “Or if that’s too difficult for you, we can talk about something else. You can tell me why you became a punk.”

“Fucking _hell_. Are you _trying_ to hurt me?”

Hurt flashes on Louis’ face. “No - why would you even think that?”

“I don’t care. Shut up now,” Harry says stubbornly, his face closed-off, and fakes a yawn, badly. “I want to sleep.”

“Harry.”

“No, Louis. I am sick and injured and whatever. I’m going to sleep now.”

“I am not trying to _trick_ you, Harry. I just want to know if you love me, that’s a simple enough question, right?”

“Fuck you. No, it’s not. You fucking _know_ it’s not. You’re just asking because I’m trapped here.”

"Well,” Louis says, his back rigid, “it _should_ be. And stop playing the victim,” he snarls.

Harry closes his eyes. “I _am_ a victim. I got beaten up.”

“Oh _come on_ ,” Louis says. “How much longer are you going to use that as an excuse to -”

"As an excuse to what? You’re the one who used it as an excuse to not give me a handjob.” 

Louis sighs frustratedly. “Are we seriously back to that? I just want to know what this,” he gestures between the two of them, “is.”

“Stop it,” Harry begs, “please. I really can’t.”

“Fine,” Louis says. He doesn’t storm out, this time. He looks at Harry with burning eyes that keep Harry from falling asleep, back stiff against the back of his chair.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Harry mutters.

Louis doesn’t answer.

“Hey. Louis. _Please_. I’ll... you can ask me. three things. And I’ll answer. I swear. Just... not that.”

“Stop fucking _begging_ ,” Louis says, but he seems mollified somehow. “Why did you become a punk?” He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s entire body stiffens and he barely hides a wince. 

“Not that either,” he says apologetically, the pain making him look ten years older.

“No, come on. you said. Three things, and that’s question one.”

Harry grips a fistful of blanket, bracing himself. “Right. Fine. Okay. So.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “So. Right. Okay. I, um. Yeah. So. My dad died. Killed himself. Question two.” Even with his eyes closed, Harry can see the look on Louis’ face - his mouth, slightly open, his wide blue eyes. The same pity everyone used to look at him with, before it turned to dislike when he stopped being _poor Harry_ and started being _punk Harry_. Harry isn't complaining. That's what he wanted.

“I’m -”

“No. You’re not. Question two.” Harry keeps his eyes closed and tries to keep his breathing steady. _Don’t cry, Harry fucking Styles_. 

“Um, I - okay. How did you meet Zayn?”

Harry’s eyes fly open, and he smiles, a little, slow smile. Louis smiles back. Doing the right thing, he thinks. For once. 

“I liked his name. He used to spell it with an i then he decided it was cooler with a y. I thought that was cool.”

“The young Harry styles was easy to impress, huh?”

“Shut up.”

Louis laughs. "So what, you walked up to him and told him you liked his name?”

Harry blinks. “Yes. We were, like, eight. It’s easy to make friends when you’re eight. You just say _hey, wanna be my friend_ and that’s it.”

Louis chuckles, looking a little wistful. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Harry clears his throat. “Third question,” he prompts.

“Can we talk about it? I mean. About your dad dying?”

Harry hesitates for a moment. “No.”

“ _Have_ you talked about it?” 

“Talking doesn’t raise the dead so what’s the fucking point?”

Louis frowns. “Is that a song lyric?”

“Maybe. Whatever.”

“How old were you?”

“That counts as talking about it,” Harry points out. “We’re done with the three questions thing. You had three and I answered them all.”

Louis looks at Harry with something very soft in his eyes that makes him squirm. It’s not pity, and he’d almost prefer if it was, because this – this is dangerous. 

“Stop that.”

Louis chuckles. “Yeah,” he says nonsensically, and bends down to kiss Harry, sweet and almost tender, almost chaste. 

Harry hums into the kiss; closes his eyes. He’s so tired. He hadn’t noticed that he was so tired. “Will you play something for me sometime?” he mumbles, the words slipping out of his mouth, unchecked.

“Maybe,” Louis says, with this tilt in his voice that Harry knows means, _do you love me?_

“That’s good enough,” Harry says, and lets himself drown, again.

-

Harry wakes up to Niall and pizza. the smell makes him feel a bit sick. “Why are you eating in bed with me?”

“Thought you might be lonely,” Niall replies, and that is such a Niall answer. 

“I was sleeping.”

“Well, you’re awake now.”

“And you decided to keep me company by munching in front of me while I was sleeping like a gigantic stalker. How thoughtful.”

“Piss off,” Niall says, unbothered. “I was hungry. You can have, like, a slice. Maybe. But only because you’re damaged.”

Harry remembers the times when Niall used to be intimidated by him with deep nostalgia. “Gimme,” he says anyway, making grabby hands for the pizza. 

Niall relinquishes a slice grudgingly, making the cheese drip on Harry’s fingers. Harry hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. Must be the concussion.

“Liam said you could have more painkillers, too, if you wanna. Gotta drink a whole bottle of water, though. He says you’re gonna get dehydrated and become a raisin.” 

“He definitely did not say I was going to become a raisin.”

Niall waves a hand dismissively. “So I embellished a bit.”

“You think comparing me to a raisin is ‘embellishing’? Nice to see you have such a high opinion of me, Nialler.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Oh, Harry, you’re so hot,” he deadpans. 

“B minus, could do better.”

Niall presses a deliberately sloppy kiss to Harry’s cheek. “I don’t want to woo you when there’s nothing you can do about it. Once your ribs heal and you can fuck again, _then_ I’ll swoop in and dazzle you with my awesome moves. You’ll see.”

Harry wipes Niall’s slobbery pizza grease kiss off his cheek. “You have enough boyfriends.”

“So do you,” Niall comments. “He’s been a bit quiet. Everything all right?”

“The fuck would I know? I was asleep.” He takes his anger out on the slice of pizza Niall gave him, biting at it particularly aggressively.

Niall rolls his eyes. “You talked to him, though, right?”

“No, Niall, we sat in silence and stared at each other dreamily until I fell asleep.”

“So, you did?”

Harry holds up one finger. “Massive fuck you.” Then another finger. “None of your business.”

Niall sighs. “I’m gonna tag-team Zayn. he likes you, even when you’re being a brat.” He wanders out of the room and actually slaps hands with Zayn, who comes in to take Niall’s place on the bed.

Harry smirks at Zayn, and Zayn leans over to poke one of his dimples. “Big brat.”

“But I’m _wounded_.”

“You’re fucked up,” Zayn agrees. “You’re kind of always fucked up.”

Harry hums in response.

“D’you think... are you ever gonna talk about it?”

“We already talked about it. There's nothing more to say,” Harry replies, firmly.

“You could, like, let go of it. Talk about it and move on. Recover, maybe. Grow up a bit.”

“You could shut the fuck up,” Harry snaps.

“Right,” Zayn says. “Except I’ve shut the fuck up for years, Haz, and you’re still... I know I’m not supposed to talk about it, because we _don’t_ talk about it, but you don’t talk about _anything_ and that’s really not okay.”

“It’s none of your fucking business!”

“It kind of is, though. I’m the one who’s been following you every fucking time you make a mistake, I think I’m entitled to some explanations.”

“Right. _Right_. You’re _entitled_. Okay. Fine. Cool. Let’s fucking do this then, shall we?” Harry sounds sort of dangerous, manic, maybe.

“Oh, sod right off, fucker. It’s not one of those things you can fix with a punch in the face, sorry,” Zayn says, hard-faced. 

“It can’t _be_ fixed, you fucker. It can’t.”

“Stop being melodramatic.”

“Right, so talking about it is gonna bring my dad back, huh? Because I don’t fucking think so.”

“Look, babe, you know I love you, but here it is: nothing is gonna bring you dad back. He’s dead. It’s over.” Zayn looks down not to see Harry’s eyes swell with tears when the words hit him. “But you can get better. You can go on with your fucking life, because people love you. We love you so much and we don’t want to put up with your pretending-not-to-be-hurt bullshit anymore. I don’t want to. I can’t live like this forever, and you can’t either.”

“He was my dad,” Harry says, in a very small voice.

“He _was_. And you’ll always love him. Letting yourself be happy doesn’t mean you’ll forget him. Think about what he’d want you to do, Haz.”

“He _killed himself_. I don’t give a fuck what he wants.”

“Look,” Zayn says, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t know him that well, and I don’t know why he did what he did. But it’s been ten years, Harry. You can’t keep being like this forever.”

“Did you know I found him?” Harry twists his fingers together tight enough to hurt.

Zayn keeps his eyes down. “Harry,” he says in a pleading tone, like, _don’t do this to yourself_. 

“I found him. I thought... I don’t know. I thought it was an accident, and he’d be okay. I called an ambulance, I think. I mean, I must have, because no one else was there. I don’t remember. I think I was in shock. like. I felt, like...” he shakes his head, slowly, not sure what he’s trying to say.

Zayn wants it so badly to be one of those times where he can let Harry tip over into his arms and cry until he’s dry and paper-thin, but he meant it when he said he can’t let it go on like this. There have been too many of those times, and Zayn loves Harry but he’s getting tired. Grief isn’t made for the long run. 

He reaches a hand out to lace his fingers with Harry’s. Harry resists for a second, but there are tears rolling down his cheeks and wetting his clenched jaw, and eventually he lets his fingers slip into Zayn’s, palms slotting together. 

There are so many wrong things he could say. 

“Haz,” he says, praying that this isn’t one of those. “Let it go. I know it’s not - but just. Let it go, okay? You can’t live like this. No one can.”

“I was just a kid,” Harry says, sounding sort of desperate. “I was his _kid_. He shouldn’t have fucking _done_ that to me.”

“But you’re not a kid anymore. You _know_ the world isn’t a fair fucking place, haz.”

“I don’t know how to not have that in my head. Sometimes, I still see blood on my hands. I don’t know how to not.”

Zayn has said everything before, _it’s not your fault he did this_ and _you didn’t kill him_ and _it’s gonna be okay_. It’s hard every time, though, painful like a new wound, raw and leaking blood. 

“I’m not asking you to forget, haz. it’s just, like,” Zayn flails a little, searching for the right words. There are no right words in this kind of situation. “Like, this, your dad, it’s your childhood house, right? You can move, that’s all I’m saying. Doesn’t mean you’ll forget it, doesn’t mean it won’t be _your_ house, doesn’t mean you’ll understand all the secret passageways all of sudden. It doesn’t have to always be painful.”

Harry takes a shuddery deep breath and winces when it hurts his ribs. “Getting poetic on me, Zayner?" he says, smiling weakly, and then, quieter: "I’ve been mad at him for most of my life. Mad at fucking everything. Punishing him, and myself, and you, and I’m sorry, I am, I know I’ve been fucking awful.”

“No, no, don’t say that,” Zayn says, even though it’s kind of true. Everything clambers at the edge of his mouth, all the _I know you’re mad_ and _just stop now_. “Are you still mad now, though?” he asks. His hand untangles from Harry’s and comes up to stroke his curls almost by itself. 

“I’m tired,” Harry admits. “I want... I want to let it go. Can you... help me?”

“Yeah, Haz,” he says instead of _I don’t know_ , pulling him into the tight circle of his arms. Harry’s head falls on his chest with a soft thump. “Me and Liam and Niall and Louis. We can all help you if you let us.”

“It’s hard. it scares me. I hate, like... I feel like you can see right through me, now, and I hate that.”

Harry would probably laugh if Zayn said, _what I see inside is fucking beautiful_ , so he doesn’t say it, only thinks it very hard. “Yeah,” he says inanely, stroking the hair right above Harry’s right ear. 

“I can’t talk to them like this.”

“It’ll come,” Zayn says. “Most things eventually do.”

“Thank you for staying. Always.” Harry closes his eyes against tears. “Some things come too soon, huh? Liam, for instance.”

Zayn swats his ear. “How do you know that, you filthy bastard? Don’t mention it to him, he’s sensitive about it or whatever.” Harry chuckles. 

“And you’re welcome,” Zayn adds, softer. “It’s worth it.”

Harry snorts. “Try convincing Louis that I’m worth it.”

“I will,” Zayn says, unexpectedly serious. 

Harry headbutts Zayn’s shoulder, affectionately. “Don’t. It’s whatever.”

“He’s not as stupid as you think,” Zayn says. “I don't think he needs much convincing. I mean, he’s princess-y and snobbish and shit, but I think he’s a good one. Or something.”

“Or something,” Harry repeats sleepily. 

“Don’t drool on me,” Zayn warns. “I’ll fucking rip your head off, I swear to god. This shirt is new.”

“‘m not Niall. He slobbers. Like a dog.”

“Yeah, well.” Zayn waggles his eyebrows. “It’s not always unpleasant.”

“You disgust me. Also, he tried to have sex with me. Is that a thing you should know about?”

Zayn waves it off. “Whatever, I don’t care.” he thinks it over for a second. “Actually, he already had sex with you.”

“I think I would know,” Harry says, sounding vaguely freaked out. 

“No, but like, by transitive property? I had sex with you and also with him, so. It’s like sharing a straw.”

“Oh, fuck me, you’re disgusting. That’s not how it works. I mean, that’s how STDs work, but not... sexual relationships.”

“Niall is totally a STD. He’s like, the cuteness-puppies-and-pizza STD. Also, so not a virgin,” he adds, because he’s Zayn and that’s what he does.

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Really? I mean, like, before you?”

“Nope,” Zayn says, popping the p. “Lots of experience. Professional bottom. He even slept with that wanker Nick Grimshaw from Radio One.”

“Fucking hell, _Nialler. seriously_? And fuck off, Grimmy’s a mate.”

“A mate who fucked Niall. Or whom Niall fucked, actually, I don’t know the specifics.”

“Nick fucks everyone. It’s like that thing about rats, how you’re always within a certain distance of rats? You’re also within a certain distance of someone Nick Grimshaw has fucked.”

Zayn looks like he wants to ask the lamp if it has had inappropriate relationships before he does a double-take on Harry. “Oh, fuck, seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Is he as good as everyone says, then? ‘cause the way Niall was talking about it, I was thinking about trying to talk him into a foursome thing. You and Louis can join if you want.”

“I’m always up for an orgy. Let my ribs heal first though, yeah?”

“Oh, right, sure.” Liam is definitely better at that nurse thing than he is. “Think you can convince your prissy boyfriend?”

“You should be more worried about losing Niall to Nick. He’s pretty fucking good.” Harry looks at Zayn, considering. “Maybe better than you, man... his blowjobs aren’t great, though, so you’ve got that going for you. You are a champion cocksucker.”

Zayn does an ironic little bow. “Thanks. So, like, did you and Nick date or some shit?”

“I don’t date. Or I _didn’t_ date, whatever. We fucked. A lot. I blew him in the middle of his show once or twice.”

Zayn snorts. ‘Once or twice’ in Harry terms probably means something closer to ‘every day for two years’. 

“He played one of our songs once. It was pretty cool.” Harry nuzzles into Zayn’s neck, wondering if Zayn will stay still for long enough for him to sleep. “I miss being a band. Our last gig was, like, forever ago.”

“Me too,” Zayn says. “We should have a gig soon.”

“D’you think Simon will let us perform at his club?”

“Probably not,” Zayn says. 

Harry sighs. “I’d be on my best behaviour. No blood or anything.”

Zayn snorts. “Yeah right. Jizz then?” he scrunches up his nose. “Wait no, gross.”

“Not _during_ the show. I’d wait til after. I have _some_ manners.”

“Do you really? Where have they been during the last ten years then?”

“When have you ever seen me have sex on stage?”

“I remember you grinding up to me multiple times. There was jizz involved.”

“Piss off! Maybe in _your_ pants, but some of us have self control.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow at him. “Whatever,” he says. “I don’t have time for your lies.”

“Yeah? what’s on your busy schedule, then?”

Zayn opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it like a fish. “Oh fuck,” he says. 

“What?”

“Okay.” Zayn says. “Don’t freak out.”

“...right. tTat’s not a great start.” Harry peers at Zayn warily. “I make no promises.”

“You remember when we were all at the hospital? And Niall -”

Comprehension dawns on Harry’s face. “Oh fuck,” he breathes out. “Rocky.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I be a little freaked out? I mean, I think I’m going to be anyway.”

“Focus, Haz. We have to find him.”

“Search party!” Harry bellows, punching his fist in the air. 

Zayn sighs. 

“This is _important_. It’s Rocky. He’s the best fucking mouse _ever_.” Harry scrambles out of the bed, wincing when he hurts himself. “Fuck,” he hisses. 

“Haz, calm down, okay?”

“No, no, because he’s a _mouse_ and he’s very small and it’s a really big world, and he might be _dead_ because I fucking _left_ him, and I shouldn’t have done that. He's like, my responsibility.”

“You didn’t _leave_ him, you asshole, you got beaten up by a bunch of douchebags.”

“Where are Louis and Liam? We need them for our search party.”

Zayn sighs. It’s obvious he’s not getting out of this. “I’ll call them.”


	6. i'm gonna try with a little help from my friends

Harry isn’t much help as a member of their search party. Mostly he staggers about and whines about his ribs hurting and has to sit down to catch his breath too often.

“Be strong,” Louis says, hooking an arm around Harry’s waist. “For Rocky.”

Zayn snorts, and Harry turns around to glare at him. 

“Down, boys,” Liam says without looking at them. He sounds like a bedraggled parent which, let’s face it, he is. 

The first place they go to is the hospital. Louis charms a nurse into talking to them (because, quoting Harry, there’s ‘no way they’re gonna queue’) and asks her whether there was a mouse with Harry when he came to the hospital. She looks at them like she thinks they’re mental, and says that no, there wasn’t, and asks if that young man should be out of bed because he doesn’t look well at all.

“He’s fine,” Harry grumbles, looking a little green. “Peachy.”

The nurse sighs at them, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like ‘young hooligans’ under her breath. “D’you want a cup of tea or something?” she asks Harry. 

“No. Thanks,” Harry mutters, trying to be polite, for once. He’s really fucking tired and he kind of wants to puke and also the whole breathing thing is unpleasant enough that it’s starting to make him lightheaded and he should probably have stayed in bed, but he lost Rocky, so it’s his fault, anyway.

“Suit yourself,” she says. She looks like she wants to take him with, stuff him in a bed and feed him tea, and it makes Harry think about his mum for a second. He shakes his head to chase the thought.

“God,” he croaks out. He hides his face in the crook of Louis’s neck because really, he’s not going to cry in front of the others, there’s no way. 

Louis smoothes a hand down his back. “Sshh,” he says, and chokes on a chuckle when Harry kicks him in the shin, lightly. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Niall says. 

They’re in the process of walking - well, more like stumbling for Harry - away when she calls them. “You should check the place where we found him,” she says. 

“Brilliant. Thank you. We will,” Liam tells her, smiling, all charm.

Harry grips Zayn’s arm and leans against the wall as soon as they’re far enough away that they’re out of sight of the nurse. “Fuck,” he pants. “ _Fuck_.”

“C’mon, haz,” Zayn says, crowding close to him. “You’re not going to make me carry you like a princess, are you?”

“No,” Harry growls. “Just... need... a minute.”

The nurse appears out from nowhere and hands Liam a cup of tea, smiling tiredly. “Take care, boys,” she says softly before walking away with quick little steps. 

“Here, drink,” Liam says, pressing the cup against Harry’s lips. 

Harry drinks, only to grimace when he feels the taste. “That’s _tea_ ,” he says.

“Yep. It’s warm and sweet. Tea heals anything. Have faith in tea,” Louis tells him, firmly, ignoring how pale Harry looks, and they all know they shouldn’t have brought him with them, but he wouldn’t stay home alone.

Harry coughs weakly. “Where next?”

“The park, right?” Zayn glances at Harry, who’s still panting into his tea. “We should take a cab.”

“Still poor,” Harry reminds him. 

“I’ll pay for it, whatever,” Louis says, standing close as though he’s afraid Harry’s going to collapse-slash-faint. 

“Don’t be... stupid. Walk.”

“Harry, you’re wheezing right now. You can’t walk to the park,” Liam points out, reasonably. “We shouldn’t have let you come at all, really.”

“I’ll wait for you there, then,” Harry says. He feels dizzy. He should really sit down. 

“I’m not leaving him there,” Louis says to Zayn, tightly. “We’re taking a cab, finding this fucking mouse and then getting him home.”

Zayn raises his hands, like, _calm down, dude_. He’s getting kind of tired of Louis being always angry. He gets that he’s worried, but the guy needs to relax, seriously. 

In the end, they decide to wait in the hall for Harry to get his breath back. Harry slumps in a seat and keeps wheezing. Louis rubs his back and pretends he’s not alarmed by the rasping way Harry is breathing in short bursts.

“C’mon, love,” he says, brushing a thumb over the soft skin of Harry’s throat. 

Harry looks up at him, his eyes wet. “My throat’s raspy,” he says. 

“I know,” Louis says. He leans down to peck Harry on the lips. Harry closes his eyes. “It’s okay.”

“Hey,” Niall says. 

Harry opens his eyes. “What?” he croaks out. 

Niall smiles, opening his backpack to reveal Boris’s tiny head. "He wanted to come," he says with a soft shrug. Liam looks accordingly alarmed, of course. “Hide that!” he hisses frantically. 

Harry smiles. “Thanks,” he says. “You don’t suck too much as friends.”

“We’re risking your life for a mouse. We’re horrible friends,” Louis replies, bluntly.

Harry laughs weakly. “>hatever,” he says, lacing his and Louis’s fingers. “Fuck that.”

It takes a few minutes for Harry to breathe normally again, but he does, through sheer determination and the knowledge that Louis will drag him home if he doesn’t. 

“Okay, so,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “The park.”

“A _cab_ to the park.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fuck off. See how fine I am? I can walk to the fucking park.”

“No fucking way,” Louis says, in a way that bears no discussion. 

“Your lips were a little bit blue, Haz,” Zayn tells him.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Okay, a cab, whatever.”

The cabbie is actually cool enough to let them all cram in the backseat, provided that they pay double fare. The park isn’t far; it takes them a little under ten minutes to get there, and Harry breathes normally all the way through it, so they’re counting it as a success. 

At the park, Harry wanders about for a while, trying to remember the right bench. When he finds it, he sits down heavily, wrapping one arm around his ribs and pretending he’s fine. The memories aren't exactly the bright spot of his day. “Here.”

Louis kneels in front of him, resting his palms on Harry’s knees. “You fine?”

“Always,” Harry says, between quick, shallow breaths.

Niall pokes about in the bushes and squeals when he finds a rat, but no Rocky.

“Well,” Liam says after about half an hour spent crawling in the dirt. “He’s not here.”

Harry screws his eyes shut, tears prickling at the corners.

“Cheer up, love,” Louis says, wrapping him in an embrace. “We’re gonna find him.”

“Yeah,” Harry says in Louis’s sweater. “Riskin’ my life for this.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.” Louis tuts. “You’re not gonna die, you daft git. I wouldn’t let that happen,” he adds, softly. 

“You said... it first. Horrible friends,” Harry reminds him.

“Was just trying to make it stick in your thick head that you’re not actually invincible,” Louis says, knocking his knuckles against the side of Harry’s skull. 

“Mm. I feel awful, honestly. Death is coming for me.”

“Shove off,” Louis laughs. “You sound like a lifetime movie.”

“We’re a bunch of punks and a bartender trying to find a mouse in a park, and we have a tortoise in a backpack. We’re a fucking movie, all right,” Zayn points out.

"I'm not a punk," Louis retorts, offended. 

“Rocky,” Harry says, sadly.

“There has to be somewhere else we could go,” Liam says, hands on his hips. He pats the dust off his trousers. 

“You still got some,” Zayn says, pressing his body close. “Here.” he brushes his thumb over Liam’s bottom lip. 

Niall coughs loudly, interrupting, and pouts at them both.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Can we save your relationship drama for later? It’s gonna get dark and cold soon. We don’t have time for making out.”

Zayn grins and leans in to kiss Liam anyway, who blushes very prettily.

Louis sighs. “Guys. Focus.”

They don’t pay attention to him. Niall comes closer, still pouting. “I want one too,” he says, and when Zayn turns towards him he grabs his face and plants one on him. Louis watches, but it’s only because he’s worried they might end up asphyxiated. Seriously, how is this shit even possible? 

“worst friends,” Harry grumbles, “ever.”

Zayn sticks his middle finger up at Harry over Niall’s shoulder, grabbing Liam’s nape in the same motion. 

Harry decides that the best course of action is to hold his breath until they pay attention to him. it’s juvenile, sure, but whatever.

Luckily for everyone, Louis is still as sassy as ever and snaps his fingers annoyingly in front of Zayn and Niall’s eyes until they break away to growl at him. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he says. “Can we go now, please? We still have a mouse to find and Harry here to force into bed. To _sleep_ ,” he adds for Harry's benefit, making severe eyes at him. 

“Sorry,” Liam offers, sheepishly.

“Shit, Haz, your lips are really blue!” Niall comments, looking at him wide-eyed.

Harry gasps a breath then chokes and coughs and sputters for a while before his breathing evens out again. “Fuck me. Broken ribs are a motherfucker.”

“We should make Boris sniff the ground. Like a hound dog or something,” Niall says. 

“Yeah, that’s not an idiotic suggestion at all,” Zayn replies, ruffling Niall’s hair to take the bite out of his words.

Niall pouts, but takes Boris out of his backpack anyway, setting him on the ground. Boris looks around him, looking vaguely freaked out. Niall crouches down next to him. “C’mon, Boris,” Niall encourages. “Love conquers all, or some shit.”

It’s not like they have any other options, so they go with it. They get back into the cab (it’s the same cabbie, they’re lucky on that one) and set Boris on the headboard. To his credit, the cabbie looks at them they’re only vaguely insane and not completely bonkers. 

Niall watches Boris intently, like he actually believes Boris will be able to find Rocky.

“Where are you headed?” the cabbie asks.

“Wherever the tortoise wants.”

“Sure, mate,” the cabbie says placatingly. “D’you have an address?”

Niall acts as a tortoise-to-cabbie interpreter.

They’re all a bit disappointed to find themselves outside Harry and Zayn’s flat.

“Well,” Niall says, talking half to Boris and half to them. “That’s disappointing.”

Boris shoots him the tortoise version of a _why are you so stupid_ look.

They all clamber out of the taxi anyway, Louis lingering to pay and Harry staying as long as he can too because he really prefers sitting down.

Zayn lights a cigarette and has a couple of drags before Liam’s disapproving scowl gets to be too much for him and he grinds it out under his heel with a sigh. 

“So whipped,” Harry mutters under his breath, just loud enough so everyone can hear. Zayn glares at him. 

Meanwhile, Boris has trotted into the house, looking very sure of himself. Niall follows like he's got the answer to all the questions of the universe.

Liam follows behind Niall, and Zayn follows Liam, checking out his arse very obviously. “God, stop thinking about sex for a second,” Louis bitches. “We have a mouse to find.”

“Like that’s so much of a priority for you,” Zayn answers, eyes narrowed. He knows he shouldn’t but he’s getting tired and strung-out and yeah. 

Luckily, they’re interrupted by Niall’s loud cry of “oh my god.”

“D’you think someone’s broken in?” Harry ponders. “Squatters, maybe. Been gone for a while.”

Zayn takes a second to ponder on Harry sounding absolutely unfazed about the possibility of his apartment having been vandalized when they hear a second “oh my god” from the next room. 

“Guys,” Liam says. 

“What,” Zayn answers, but he understands when he walks into the room and there is Rocky, chilling on the couch next to Boris who’s looking appropriately smug. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Harry gasps. “Oh my motherfucking _god. Rocky_.” There are actual tears in his eyes, which is a bit embarrassing, but his punk mascot mouse is here and safe and alive, so he thinks he can be forgiven for feeling a bit emotional.

“Thank god,” Louis whispers behind him as Harry kneels in front of the sofa and lets Rocky climb into his hair, nuzzling into it. 

“This shit is still disgusting,” Zayn marvels. 

Harry laughs, giving him the finger. He can’t seem to stop smiling, which is a nice improvement from the wheezing-and-dying from five minutes ago. 

“What a clever Boris,” Niall coos to the tortoise, petting his little head. Boris indulges him. “I was right,” Niall says, and are those _actual stars_ shining in his eyes? Nope. This is not happening. “Love does conquer all.”

Zayn groans. “Oh my god, stop,” he says. “All of you.”

“You love it,” Liam tells him, nuzzling up to him, kissing his neck. “You love us. All of us.”

“One of us, one of us,” Louis chants, teasing.

“I can never claim to be punk again,” Zayn bemoans, baring his neck to give Liam better access. “This is the end of my punk career.”

Harry looks up at him, kind of softly. For Harry. “I’m sure we can find a way to make it work,” he says, low enough that only Zayn hears. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, ignoring the way is heart is beating like it wants to leap out his chest, curving his hand over Niall’s hip to bring him close. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“Punk til we die,” Harry declares, proudly.

“Shut it, you wanker,” Louis smiles, cupping Harry’s jaw and swallowing his protests. 

“And a pianist,” Harry murmurs, when they break apart. “Who still hasn’t played me anything.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Louis says. He leans in.

Harry thinks about remarking on how sappy that line is, but thinks better of it. He closes his eyes. 

 

**Epilogue - three months later**

“The milk’s off,” Niall announces to no one in particular.

“And who was supposed to buy a new carton?” Louis says, looking at Zayn pointedly. 

“I got distracted,” Zayn says. he actually remembers taking his keys with the intent of going out and shopping for groceries, but then Niall called him from work and said he was bored and started talking in his sexy voice. Zayn can’t be blamed for forgetting about the milk. Technically it's Niall's fault.

“ _And_ the bread’s mouldy.” Niall sighs, looking mournful. “I’m going to _starve_.”

“Have an apple,” Liam suggests, with the undying optimism only someone who has been laughed at for this kind of remarks and enduring it with a smile can have. 

Niall scrunches his nose at him, disgusted by the mere concept. “An apple is not a breakfast.”

“It’ll keep the doctor away, though,” Zayn tells him, grinning cheekily.

Niall pouts at him. “It’s your fault there’s no milk or bread or bacon or _anything_. You’re awful. A horrible, terrible boyfriend.”

“ _You_ ’re the one who distracted me with phone sex,” Zayn says, looking mildly hurt. “I’m a great boyfriend.”

Louis coughs loudly to interrupt as he enters the room. “No details! None! And I have an idea for breakfast.”

“Breakfast,” Niall repeats, hopefully, doing heart-eyes at Louis. His affections are fickle. 

“Guess who has the early morning shift at the coffee shop?” He waggles his eyebrows at them.

Harry working morning shifts is mostly not funny because Louis loves morning sex but waking up at six am invariably makes Harry pissy and not prone to good morning blowjobs, but he might as well make the most of it now. Also, it’s kind of hilarious seeing Harry try to offer good customer service when it’s obvious to everyone that he still wants to be sleeping.

“To the coffee shop!” Niall cheers. “Free muffins for everyone!”

“No,” Harry says when they get there, glaring at the lot of them, still in the pajamas and slippers under their coats, given that the coffeeshop is just opposite the apartment. 

“Ah, but Harry, we’ve come for coffee. Zayn here wants a flat white,” Louis tells him. None of them are particularly sure what that even means, except that Harry grumbles like fuck every time he has to make one.

“No,” Harry says, crossing his arms on his chest. “And you’re not getting anything for free.”

“But Harry,” Louis says, fluttering his eyelashes at him, “you look so good in your apron!”

Harry glares, opening his mouth to say something that’s probably an insult, but his supervisor is walking towards them, looking mildly concerned. “Everything good, Harold? Do you need help serving these gentlemen?”

“So, that was four lattes?” Harry says, very politely to the boys. “No, thank you. Everything’s fine here.”

His supervisor - her name’s Caroline, or so her nametag says - smiles warmly at him. Louis actually suspects she has something of a crush on Harry, which makes half of him want to howl with laughter and the other half want to leave more hickeys on Harry’s throat every night. 

“And muffins,” Niall adds, pointedly.

“Can I have caramel in my latte?” Zayn asks, smiling dreamily at Harry.

Harry very much wants to tell Zayn where the fucking caramel will be going, but instead he smiles. “Certainly.”

“Thanks ever so much,” Louis says with a small mocking curtsey, smile wider than necessary. 

Harry tries to say _fuck you all_ with just his eyes. While he makes their coffees, the boys bicker about muffins.

“Double chocolate,” Niall insists, stubbornly.

“Blueberry,” Liam corrects. “Fruit is good for you.”

“In cake,” Zayn says, deadpan.

Liam sighs at him. "Whose side are you on?”

Zayn holds his hands up quickly, defensive. “Nobody’s. Or both sides.”

Louis glares at Zayn. “Stop. Swallow back the sex joke you’re thinking, I don’t want to hear it.”

“You deserve it,” Harry mumbles under his breath, then says, louder: “Your lattes, gentlemen. Have we come to a decision about muffins yet? they’re all very delicious.”

“Do you have any advice for us?” Zayn asks him, just to be a dick. 

“I would _advise_ you to make a decision and get out,” Harry snarls, quietly. “I particularly like the raspberry and white chocolate, personally.”

“I’m not sure,” Louis says, ignoring the guy behind them whose irritation is starting to be less and less discrete. 

“I’d like the poppyseed one, please,” Liam says, smiling apologetically at Harry.

Harry writes _fuck you very much_ on the cardboard cup of Louis’s latte, then picks out a muffin for Liam. “C’mon, guys,” he mutters. “Hurry up.”

“Double chocolate,” Niall repeats.

Liam sighs at him, but Harry ignores it and gives Niall the muffin of his dreams.

Niall looks at it with wonder. “Can I have another one?” he asks Harry. 

“No,” Harry says. “Fuck off.”

He ducks when Louis tries to kiss him, not because he’s embarrassed but because the fucker really doesn’t deserve it. Besides, it’s not like they’re not going to be fucking in the loo ten minutes from now, anyway. 

“Blueberry,” Zayn requests. “Fruit is good for me.”

“Ooh, someone wants to get laid tonight,” Louis croons. 

“He wants chocolate really,” Niall tells Harry, who nods.

“Course he does, Nialler. Lou, whenever you’re ready would be _wonderful_. And the rest of you better be counting out your coins, by the way. No freebies.”

It takes them another ten minutes for them to count their coins (Harry is unshakeable and, he says, would like to keep his job for more than two months this time) and gather their coffees. The man behind them looks like he’s resigned to miss whatever he was in a hurry for, staring forlornly at his tie. Zayn would probably want to give him a hug if he was the type of person who gave hugs. 

Niall is considerably more cheerful now the breakfast situation has been sorted. “How’s your muffin?” he teases Zayn, kicking him under the table.

“It’s good, thanks.”

“Want a chocolate chip?”

“ _Yes _.” Zayn reaches for it with ravenous eyes.__

__Niall actually giggles, because it's a thing Niall does. “None for you!”_ _

__“Don’t be a muffin tease.”_ _

__While Niall and Zayn bicker and both try to pull Liam into their mock-argument, Louis looks over at Harry. Harry checks Caroline’s not around before sticking his middle finger up at him. Louis shakes his head fondly at him. “My boyfriend is so punk,” he says, proudly._ _


End file.
